(to her).
“Can we start over?”
“No.”
Sniffle.
“But we can keep going.”
“Your turn,” I say to Krista.
“Tell us why you freaked.
But first, make Mickey buy you
a funnel cake.”
On a bench
by the Ferris wheel
they eat.
I crouch a few feet in front of them,
in the middle of the foot traffic.
Apparently I never sat on that bench
in my whole life.
“My brother died when I was ten.”
Krista tugs off a long string of fried dough
and dangles it into her mouth.
Powdered sugar
showers over the edge of her lips
down to her chin.
I wonder if Mickey wants to lick it off.
I would
if I could smell
and taste,
or think of anyone but Aura.
“What happened?” Mickey asks.
“OD’d.”
A strong breeze