future wives club
porch light saturday nights,
when neighborhood mosquitos flirted in our ears.
we dressed in my dad’s favorite shade of beer.
you liked to smoke your mom’s menthol cigarettes;
i liked the smell of a dozen toxic stars being born.
you used to tell me
wouldn’t fix the holes in my pockets,
wouldn’t fill my fissured palms with gold,
while you chewed your spray-paint lip ’til it bled,
’cause “you know, some things taste better when you’re poor.”
but you had eyes
that were art school blue
and those daydream, moonbeam hips.
we both knew your last name was a work-in-progress,
that you were one mutated pumpkin and two
vitreous slippers away
from middle class snoring stability,
from three children with alliterative names
and a well-educated border collie.
posing on that porch swing,
boys would drink us in like cherry cola.
smiling like stop lights,
we never really wanted anyplace to go.
Sarah Rodriguez is the current Poetry Editor at Punch Drunk Press. She is a supporting member of the Boulder Writers’ Warehouse and Beyond Academia Free Skool. Sarah can be found reading and editing at various events in both Boulder and Denver. She loves cocktails, the color pink, and her soulmate, Earl the pug. Follow her various exploits and selfies on Instagram, @sarahstarlight.
Art: “Mosquito Porchlight” by Brice Maiurro.