by Mora Torres
A midnight stroll with Captain Radiostation
in the hills, at night
San Fernando to the left
and Whites Canyon to the right
the moon above completes the trinity of lights.
Helmut off, he breathes what the atmosphere offers
as crickets chirp, in the dirt,
Past the River of Bones,
and our old spaceship, busted and burnt,
Away from the tick-tock and dreams that could’ve been but weren’t.
His dusty sneakers- neon green next to his skateboard seat,
in the desert, the coyote land,
above a robot world that confuses satellites for stars
that is the lifeless thing! Not this holy sand
that can electrify the brush of fingers into holding hands.
Where two loners found someone to be alone with
an orange construction notice was placed
that flapped in the breeze like a flag for enemy forces
and soon the kingdom of imagination was erased.
It has been so long since I’ve seen his face.
Mora’s work has been published in Emerge, Defenestration, Star*line and the inside of many prestigious bathroom stalls. She lives in Berkeley, California.