Second day in a damp bikini, my straw hat hiding, playing a little game. I lose things. Pouring mom's Kahlua into a plastic cup and licking the sides. Yesterday, I kissed a root-beer boy who said he'd meet me at the pool today at one o'clock with the hat. Mom watches me smear chapstick on my lips, perched atop the sofa and a sweater over her shoulders — staring down invisible graffiti on my body. "See ya," Laughs at a movie of my face, then back to her book. Desert air feels blow-dried and fake. By the pool, root-beer boy stands looking as though I've dropped from a tree.

Take me to your pet, your glowing dog. Take me to a splash of a home, your tone-deaf singing. Take me to photos of your afterbirth and let me laugh, at how stupid it is to have photos of that. Take me to your middle-aged face. Take me to a pool, I give you credit for not drowning when drunk. I want to see and taste you. Take me to your credit card, let me buy you a round of me. Take me to your sharp parts, let me be a goat who doesn't care, doesn't notice, doesn't roll her lipstick on too many times. Take me to wax paper and let's roll ourselves out, make round cookies we want to make but think we've lost the recipe for. Take me to the place where you conceal ideas, the place where you say we are ten again beginning to notice what we like.