Going to the River with Quan
He leads me on his gold chain leash and yellow harness—butter—limited edition.
At the end of the three tiers of stairs where I’ve stuck half a dozen screaming stickers I nudge
Quan to the right, away from the spot where I once posed as a beaver in a calendar cover photo
shoot
which is on the way to the spot where I tried to watch the sun rise on the foggy morning I met
you
and wrote a poem about it—leftover flowers and trains
Quan and I walk past families trampling pine tags, post-Christmas kids crying, that one slouched
spot where I saw the sun set with a weak-kissed boy,
down and around my hiking trails, and past the abandoned pump house where I made out with
my first boyfriend
I put Quan in my backpack, zip him half way in and we descend the corroded ladder to a pre-teen
girl who says he’s cute. Anonymous flying insects swarm a wall we have to graze to get to where
the rocks read FUCK TROY.