When You’re in the Closet

There’s a girl in my bed. She fell asleep making me a mixtape. She said that when she learns to drive we’re going away. To a place where the trees are not only green and brown, but shades and arcs of blooming lotus. We’ll listen to Tegan and Sara. Windows down. The wind will run with us. At traffic stops, we’ll dance and sing like honeybees. Our wings unafraid to touch. We’ll find flat top rocks and folded mountains. We’ll go camping. Blue birds will fly over, they won’t gaze or squawk. We’ll seek fire and voices that don’t whisper. We’ll lay our heads on rotting logs. With only folded grass between our arms, we’ll fall asleep.

When light extinguishes darkness, we’ll come back.
Through a winding trail. Her hands on the steering wheel,
mine on a folded map.

           Our mothers, on the lighted porch,
will shout then whisper.

The only dirt on our skin, the road.