They park in a vacant lot right after sundown, neck-craning
and ginger on the heat of the hood.
He orders ice cream; the kids to the right and the left of them
set off roman candles and sparklers and loud whistles
with blood-thirsty, pyromaniac joy. Tex Mex filters
through the night and the pounding of top 40.
He chases down the ice cream truck, trundling along
on ruts and sage, its pop-goes-the-weasel mercifully silent.
He offers her a lick of his push-up. She wonders
when the wonders will begin. They wait, surrounded
by deeper and deeper strangeness, the night
pulling them out of their context, into a Buenos Aires
street festival or a Mexico City carnival.
Cries for agua agua echo through the lot as one too many
roman candles incinerate unsuspecting bushes.
She thinks the moon is translucent, cold sweet
air that they can bite down upon like the plastic
drip of his push-up. The moon tastes slightly fruity,
slightly bitter from the smoke rising from the burning bush.
She tells him so; he is distracted by the heat,
their alien journey, her hand traveling up his thigh.
Then, suddenly conflagration. A thousand outer wars,
a million inner fires, revelation overhead.