Spring.
Trucks are whooshing in the distance, sun jabbing through the trees. Your friend corrects me: no,
you can’t turn fat into muscle. The cells stay what they are. You empty them out, and they hang
out under-skin, hollow.
Okay, I nod. Miguel, is that the name? Stick to carrying our frisbees, chonky-boy. I’m not here
for your lectures or this pretend-game with an idiot name. What the hell is frolf? I’m here for her
and only her, a different kind of Artemis, not marble, Greek or holy.
You grab one of the discs and twist, hips like a rollercoaster. Bootleg goddess of the hunt
assembled in a Kowloon back-room. Bowless but just as deadly, that low swing in ripped jeans
sniping me cleanly. Nice form, another one of your friends comments.
The way you saunter on the fairway hurts. You’re smiling at nothing. At everything.
#
You sink into the seat, right hand settling lower, too.
To our right, the cows keep chewing. Los Banos, 114 miles.
Flushed and whimpering while I do ten over limit, clutching my arm.
#
Summer.
Not enough redwoods to shelter us from late afternoon August. We paddle in a two-seater,
following the others on the river. By the time the inflatables collapse, my face and shoulders are
pink.
The group has taken over the campground, a smattering of amber fires. Your Kiwanis tribe swig
from plastic cups, talking about what do after Berkeley, about their pets at home, about this
senator, black but from Hawaii, you don’t get it, he’s so different. You move-dance between
them, tipsy and luminous, telling a story at one ring, doing a dust-mashing jig at the next, drifting
back to squeeze my hand, gone again.
I look on at the edge of light. The tent welcomes me early. I hide there, listening to slurring
choruses for a while.
Dark when I wake. You’re fumbling inside, breath warm with brandy and my name. I shove you
aside hard, hard enough for you to topple to the side, too tired. A single sound, and you turn
yourself into a small quiet pile beside.
Flanked by semis rushing down 101 south, we don’t talk on the way back. My skin burns.
#
Fine, then. We’re done. Why did you drive all the way down? Could’ve just called me. Sodium streetlight drips off your wet cheekbones. You turn away and walk.
#
Winter.
Skipping over puddles from the far end of the lot to the heavily draped door.
Mantu, you read. Borani banjan, relishing the plosives. Leek dumplings, please, and the cheap
red, the whole bottle, and we’re planning the drive, the curls and undulations of the coast all the
way south to LA, through Salinas, where you want to cook for me and your two sisters. All four
of us, you repeat.
There’s a sepia-toned portrait of an austere mustache-man on the wall, and rugs, and eagle-
embroidered cloths. We toast them, the mustache, the rugs and birds, emptying the bottle. The
waiter wrinkles his nose when I slide the restaurant.com coupon at the end. I don’t care.
It’s raining again. You bolt ahead before I can open the umbrella, sprinting in a spiral across the
wet asphalt, arms flailing. You slip, lands flat, grinning at the sky. I catch up slowly, extended the
umbrella to cover you. How about we stay here, you propose. Hair soaked, incandescent.
#
Pupils like black boba pearls, quivering under the fitting room bulbs.
You lean against the small bench, open. Come, you say.
#
Inside.
The door clicks shut and our backpacks come off. We’re kissing sideways toward the bed, not
minding chlorine in the air, the wheezing AC. You stop, hands along my ribs. So much weight.
Sorry, murmuring, so much like my ex when he joined the military, sorry. Reminds me of him
coming back looking different, drilled-down, and how he…
I shove you, palms splayed out, and you land ass-first onto the bed, shirt and mouth flopping. Do
you like that, I ask. That’s what it feels like, being pushed away.
You collect yourself into a kneeling Y, knees apart, searching for something in the low count
polyester sheets. Gone, elsewhere. Far away, tears sliding down without fanfare,
then—SNAP—back to here-now, beaming. Whispering you’re right, I shouldn’t. You’re right.
Crawling to the edge of the bed, you cup my temples. Do you realize, you begin, and your voice
is honey and gravel. I taste the second line as it dribbles out.
#
No, never. I won’t say it until it’s earned. Not until… don’t know, after a decade. Because it’s not real before; just words. Right? Yeah. You know my grandmother, after you met her, she said I should marry you. Isn’t that funny?
#
Fall.
We’re stomping on dry leaves. She’s small and generously cheek-boned, voice pitched October-
low. But she smiles easily, eyes narrowed into a good-luck cat squint like she should be waving
on a counter, next to stray bits of fried rice.
Have you met a lot of people off OkCupid, she asks. Me either. Yeah. Flaming Lips, she lists off.
Bowie, of course. Older Death Cab stuff. Sometimes it feels good, crying to music for no other
reason than, it’s beautiful. The glove compartment is inaccurately named, she hums, and we end
together: AND EVERYBODY KNOWS IT.
Tic-Tacs so we can make out, I say. She snorts while laughing, but the ragged man from behind
the gas station counter isn’t in the mood. Still, he chats with us—no, you. Just you. I glance back
as the door slams. He’s watching you skip away. Maybe he’s afraid like I am, afraid that
something will spark off you and set off the tanks. KGO-TV 7 with the latest tonight, a
devastating explosion at the corner of College and Russell, two local students immolated by a
detonation that will stay with them, or maybe just him, for the rest of his life.
More at eleven.
Harm Deacon’s work has also appeared in Hawkeye Magazine and Heavy Feather Review.