Los Angeles, brittle beauty with boned corset
of sky, I want to lace you up so tight
all your blue disappears into some backdoor in space.
Don’t worry, L.A., that’s where you’ll find me, alone
in a gown of clouds, drinking martinis in the private room—
a side of rainwater, the noir stars fissured on my skin.
There was a man I loved once (maybe you loved him too?),
together we planted a shame tree in his name. It’s a variety you know well:
drought-resistant, it thrives in every yard. Its leaves make shadows
on my bathroom window when I dance in front of the mirror at night.
My face catches the light differently since our eyes first met:
Arm weights, leg weights. Check.
Los Angeles, like you, I’m staying young,
my youth setting inside me like the incessant, flaming sun.