August lulls in a dull gray,
rain falls heavy, and we are three women
being 20 in a half-open garage;
water explodes when it hits the driveway
like bombs bearing gifts
to the asphalt crack weeds. Joanna and Candice
throw rock, paper, scissors, for the record:
Dark Side of the Moon or Working Man’s Dead.
Candice rolls a dart joint
that goes straight for the optics,
dilating pupils to dinner plates,
turning rain into kamikaze words,
soundless except for song,
and the broken letters pile like trash on curbs.
We watch from a three-seater rummage couch
made of polyester flowers, and we’re stuck!
Three brown-eyed, brown-haired girls
of sister source are submerged like mermaids
under the incredible weight of instruments;
we don’t want to swim out,
and Candice likes the way her dreadlocks
sprawl like tentacles under the sea,
Joanna’s tresses make a backwards S
and mine makes snakes like Medusa.


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