we drive your old car with the bolder engine
& from the parking lot
the mountain whispers about us. you say,
"don't hold my hand" & so i make
a rabbit of my fingers & send them off
to rifle through the brush. i have reached the point
where i do not consider whether or not
it is safe for me to be queer somewhere.
i just say, "is this a good place to become
a monument?" it usually isn't.
in the store we collect rubber rats
& decide they are our children. i fill a shopping cart.
walk through a syrafoam graveyard.
everything is temporary & permanent.
you buy fangs & a bottle of fake blood.
everything smells like nowhere.
the wall of masks is patient. stares at us
from across the store. there is always
a crowd watching when you look
like a bouquet of heels. like a bowl of
truck stops. here is where i ask what it is
you want to be & you answer earnestly
& say, "a ghost" when i just meant
"what would you like to dress up as?"