Under a tree swarming with monarch butterflies,
sunset brands Ava over Tomas’ chest.
A tree frog clings to the trunk—trilling, sirening.
Why live in a state not created for them.
When he pulls on her earlobe, a spark crackles,
a flame with a blue heart flickers out.
The first star of the night winks slowly
igniting more stars inside of them.
Who is writing the history of their story?
Ava bites the gold rim of her wine glass.
On his black t-shirt, skeletons dance.
How do you say goodbye without le bis?
At the window, a wasp headbutts the panes,
until Ava heaves the sticky sash open.
Sharp sweet apple blossoms twitch her nose.
Tomas’ head is not a box of calm.
When he shares his plan to flee deportation,
it shatters on the red tile, jagged shards.
Ava storms off, doors slamming. Now both
stare from behind detention glass.
In the night, an owl flies, calling.
The other wings above moonlit clover.
