I was two thousand miles of cornfields away from us,
hours from Mindoro, that shitty fold-out, your daddy's car
and a keystone night
when you sauntered in,
eyes blazing from a teenage drunk,
and your arms bare
hanging like battle axes.
I was home in the vineyards,
I had grape bunches on my eyelids, the taste of the sea on my tongue,
a sticky salt, a thing to suckle at like taffy.
I was already making my bed beneath the redwoods,
I had their needles in my hair
and their scent pressed against my spine.
I had given up your dusty road, your endless Wisconsin skies,
the taste of my tongue against your chest,
a sixteen sodium chloride.
I'm teleporting away from this place, this one night
in my intoxicated stumble and my earthy feet.
who needs fingers full of oil stains, creases dark
against their flesh,
like they were building something living?
I want so much my west coast air,
a full breath without pawing at my cowboy killers.
I want my traffic lights like lazy eyes
and horns like heartbeats.
I want so much to want my hum and drum of a suburban city,
my beer-stained vagabonds with their paper bag penchants and shambly walks,
a street full of middle-class zombies.
I am here. My toes on a dusty road,
the stars cracking against the sky,
my stomach in protest, arguing the air smells sweeter here,
your sweat was a perfume,
I was something to plant and harvest.
There is a heavy price for your youth,
There is a heavy price for my pine trees shooting like arrows at the skies,
There is a heavy price for letting my heart thrum,
clap, clatter, clunk
Rhiannon Thorne grew up in the Bay Area of California, a couple hours north of San Francisco in the wine country, which explains both her obsessive recycling and penchant for wine. Always an ambler, she currently lives in Phoenix, AZ with her body of choice, Jenner. She received her BA in English at Sonoma State University, has recently been published in Grawlix and The Legend, and is the co-editor of the literary publication cahoodaloodaling.