the blueshift journal

Texas comes to the party already smelling of Fireball and

cherry Coke, and I know we’re going to have fun. In this

memory we are sixteen and still wearing blue eyeshadow.

She’s got on cowboy boots even in July, and a denim

miniskirt that skims her thighs. She hooks a tanned arm

through my elbow and we dance in the backyard of a boy

we half-know and won’t remember. She wears a necklace

of hickeys and I have seen her waiting out late for rides

home from the bad part of town. Still I love her, because

she smells like vanilla, because she tastes like pop rocks

and I want to swallow her whole. This is the fall we will

peel off our t-shirts on the Lincoln overpass during rush

hour. My breasts will perk up in the October wind and

Texas will laugh. They love us! she’ll say, hair whipping

her face, and I’ll giggle and try to hide my shiver. This is

the fall a boy in Wyoming gets swallowed by a pack of

wolves. Texas grins at me with Coyote teeth. Isn’t that sad

she says, but you know. This is the fall I burn holes into

the wrists of my sweaters and try digging to China. Texas

stops brushing my hair at sleepovers, and all I can do is

mourn.​