burning tires lavender grows down highways as we learn how to kiss in the backseat forget our hands, ignore the smog behind us the city's many eyes workforce long men and batons ready for the unapologetic labor of correcting wildlife
but us, we grow like foxtails bullets rain dry over a body unable to hold blood, over bodies that meet again in the backseat whispering little lovegrass, chanting until light collapses into our hands, until wildlife raises from my fingertips and we know this is the end of our running days as the melody of a floral lullaby bursts from the radio, overpowering the motor, the burning oil sirens howling kilometers close, hiding the smell of gunpowder that claws its way towards our little car.
so you drive us citybound your nightshade smile, your kisses down the back of my hand your solar-powered heart, your warm cruelty turned against the burning asphalt that trembles in wait foresees the blood, the final stand, the glistening warmth of our getaway car under vines as you pour yourself into me kiss my hands until my fingertips overwhelm the city bury us underneath an impossible new wilderness.
victoria mallorga hernandez is a peruvian taurus, trickster, and poet. currently, she's an associate editor at palette poetry and editorial assistant at redivider mag. her first poetry collection, albion, came out with alastor editores in 2019. her work has been featured in revista lucerna, molok and el hablador. you can find her as @cielosraros in twitter and instagram.