American Apparel sleaze nuzzled the
saguaros and stucco where I grew up
kissing boys in the back seat of my silver Camry.
Their models’ flawless skin made me dream
of cities with more than a fistful of
Sonoran skyscrapers,
so I slathered on SPF and stayed out of the sun,
ready to stun in an AdSense banner.
I perfected my bored stare in mirrors and
strip mall windows scattered across the desert,
which sustained me in conversations with men who
practice and teach the law. Who
mistake my youth for naivete and
misread my blank gaze as invitations to
speak longer and scoot closer.
Men I’d shatter if they didn’t inevitably
shatter themselves first.