Crank (Crank 1)

toxic curls in the

stairwell at my feet,

soft voices rising,

pheromone fog.

He was still there,

my silver knight,

flirting with some

fallen Guinivere in

short shorts and a cropped T.

I kept to the shadows,

observing the game

I hadn’t dared play,

absorbing the rules

with adhesive eyes.

The Rules

Uncomplicated, this

child’s game.

He says, Please?

She says, “Can’t.”

He, Why not?

She, “I’m not that kind of a girl.”

Then she spends twenty

minutes disproving

the theory, until

Mother calls, Hija?

She answers, “Mama?”

Mother, Come inside now.

She, “Be right there.”

It’s a lie. He pulls her

into his lap, silencing