It was Bridge who told me
that I was like ice.
That I was the crusty top layer of the moon,
and that I shone recycled aluminum through my eyes.
He smiled his coyote teeth when he thought of the shimmer.
Summer ate away our skin, burnt us to charcoal,
but we didn’t mind.
As we walked over plastic hills and darted under windmill arms,
we met Don Quixote under the sun.
Our awkward appearance made him charge us
with a pole made from words, but it was more like
the sound of rain in a bucket,
which reminded us of the childhood we didn’t share.
As the sheets blew in the wind under our catapulting bodies
we sailed through the air, letting
ghosts haunt the space between us.
We were meteors crashing through atmospheres
and mountains
and buildings
and trees as we made our way downward.
Finally landing in rabbit fields, soft as cotton
we stood up and became the color of red velvet cupcake wrappers…
into tones too beautiful to describe…
Colors that lovely could steal all your adjectives
Bridge and I became alligators as we scuttled into a bog
and emerged on tiled floors and washed out windows.
Once again we sat at the table
and used our knives and forks as words.