I.

It’s mid-July and the sun-soaked evening feels like stroking
the bottom of satan’s ball-sack. Too many Toyota Sienna stay

-at-home moms make igloos of their 1.54 children homes.
A swarm of frosted tips and bitten lips—my big sister’s

entourage spills into the pool. A cloud of Axe body spray
fangirls behind them. I rummage the air for stray

pheromones, get high on their sweet fumes. Kelly throws
her arms around her hockey player boyfriend who wears

her like a necklace. I rip out an eyelash, wish to be
a shimmering gold chain around the likes of him.

My mother crosses herself. She doesn’t want
the boys to think that my sister is one of those girls too.

Sharpened crucifixes in her eyes, she tsk-tsks at all this
canoodling. I love canoodling. The way Jake stole

my gum backstage at the punk-rock show. Blew
cinnamon bubbles while I watched him strum. I cross

myself—at night, between my Barbie-pink bed sheets,
praying for him to play me like his lucky electric guitar.

When I was five, to keep the night terrors away,
mom taught me how to pray. She said I didn’t have to

use the prayer we recited at Catholic school. You get to
choose what you ask for, there’s no wrong way to pray—

II.

On a paddleboat in the middle of cricket song country
with Chase Rogers. Not to brag, but he’s like,

the hottest guy I’ve ever seen who isn’t famous.
My fingertip rule-breaking Abercrombie short shorts beg

to be unbuttoned. Red rhinestone g-string oughta
be green, every ounce of me says Go. He smiles

like summer rain. I’m made of sugar, melting
under the after-glow of the fires he puts out for work.

All pre sweet-sixteen summer long, Vicky’s been blaring
Taylor Swift’s Tim McGraw on her boombox. And my god,

this boy, I’m pretty sure, the song’s about him. His blue
eyes blazing, the moon like a spotlight on the lake.

It’s just like I imagined—living inside a lyric.
The call of the loon enchants me towards him.

He kisses me and the whole world stops.
Drops. Rolls. If first times were chosen like MVPs

in gym class, every version of me would hand-pick
this moment—but the congregation’s stones

cast a shadow over the present.
What will they think?

I peel his velvet hands off me,
pretend there’s somewhere I’d rather be.

III.

My colleague Tara pries her jaw off the pebbled beach.
Two tall drinks of water Baywatch run towards me, my name

maple syrup drips off their lips. Which one
did you used to date? Both. In between

espresso martinis, one slips his hand up my skirt.
Tara sees him do it. Disdain flashes on her face.

I think I’m meant to be outraged but I wish
he’d keep it there longer. The other spins me around

the dance floor, whispers chills onto my neck.
Foreshadowing has never looked better.

At the end of the night, we’re back at their hotel room.
No one’s sleeping on the pull-out, a tangle

I never want to untwine. Chocolate-dipped
strawberries and champagne on my lips,

I evanesce into crisp white sheets, floating
up towards heaven. This is my kind of church.

They smoulder like the lavender candles they lit
for me. I’m wax in their hands pooling

on the nightstand, melting under their heat.
What if the flames singe my knees, sully my soles

and I can never get them clean? I blow
the moment out, dream far less delicious dreams.

IV.

Vicky, who refers to herself as a recovering Christian
invites me to a new age workshop claiming to teach

Tantra. The perfumed invitation instructs me
to wear something that makes me feel sexy.

The women show up in florals delicate as scritta paper,
white lace kimonos fluttering like cherub wings.

I’m all black everything. Mesh bodysuit, teal
rigging rope begging to be turned into a harness.

Did I read the fine print wrong? The blonde teacher
who’s never been to India guides us

through a Sexual Reclamation Practice. Screams crowd
the room as she proclaims: Take your power

back! Think of all the times you said yes
when you meant no. I’ve worked through those

in therapy already. What about all the times
I said no when I meant yes?

~

Dré is a queer Mexican-French Canadian poet, cantadora, and alchemy enthusiast. She also writes in her mother tongues, Spanish and French. Her poetry was published in the first edition of Arte y Literatura Hispanocanadiense Anthology. She is currently working on her debut poetry collection.