[31] Aria, Jeremiah Jenkins

It is a hot day on the bridge, abandoned
pedestrian river crossing, evaporated river.
A yellow mattress slouches on the red
iron. You double-knot your stilettos before sliding ass-
first down the retaining wall, liking nothing
better than a contradiction. There isn’t even a myth
of water here, aren’t even stories about it.
A desolate gang of tires salutes us and we kick them
hard, keep on rolling past the aggregate
horizon. Gin bottles stashed inside the birdshit tarps.
Twirling in the burnt rubber air with your voluptuous
armpits and shaved head, you never once trip
in your dagger heels, and I could love you if
I wasn’t so afraid of you. “Wasn’t there something,”
you slur in the crook of your arm, “wasn’t there something
we were promised?”