by Sarah Marquez
My hands reaching towards you–
the first small gesture I make.
We are standing by your truck,
meeting for the fifth time.
How long you waited for this
doesn’t matter to the red-hot day,
temperature climbing,
or the fruit beetle, searching
for a good place to land and rest
tired wings. All the old ways
did us no good. Taking it slow,
repeating we’re just friends,
in each other’s ears, keeping
from everyone the secret
that we’ve kissed,
in a way that turns you on
and gives me butterflies.
On the thirty-minute drive
to your house, I see the future
two months from now: ash falling
from September sky, acres and acres
of wild brush burning
along the San Gabriel Mountains,
no relief coming except you
alone, in the water truck.
I am stuck at home, standing
in a dream, learning the distance
between us is a tangle of red flames
on the incidents map,
open on my phone screen.
I am not ready to inherit
this discovery of parting,
like the promise I made
under flashing stars,
to breathe in deep,
the smoke rolling away
from the skin of your hands,
reaching back.
Sarah Marquez (she/her) is an MFA student at Lindenwood University. She is based in Los Angeles and has work published and forthcoming in various magazines and journals, including Human/Kind Press, Kissing Dynamite, Salamander, The Hellebore, The New Southern Fugitives and Twist in Time Magazine. When not writing, she can be found reading for Random Sample Review, sipping coffee, or tweeting @Sarahmarissa338.
Emerge Literary Journal 