by Caroline Fuller
Saturday, we cradled al pastor from the street corner
and laid in a heap on the blue woven rug.
Around us, this one-bedroom house bulged outward, beautiful bloat,
loosened its belt a hole, two. The walls stretched and their taped-up watercolors curled.
For dessert, we stuck our hands into peanut butter jars,
licked Dollar Store adulthood off our swelling fingers.
My friends and I sculpt the summer out of cheap beer cans and the tops of our feet.
Our knuckles learn each other’s names, greet one another like oyster halves.
At the beach one day, a friend mentions moving
and the ocean smacks him against its rocks without my even having to ask,
steals his swim trunks so that he must crouch beneath the foam,
a drop of blood where my selfishness struck his temple.
As he squats there, we laugh our seagull laughs:
wide mouths, small pupils, and then
we drive home in my minivan, drip into synthetic seatbacks. Look how pink we are—
raw baby flesh, sandpaper hair, sticky city haze, and a scattering sun.