One time, on vacation in Mexico,
the birds spoke to me.
I was twelve then—
all bones, Pepsi, and rebellion.
I didn’t understand their words.
I didn’t understand
the glowing feeling in my chest.
I didn’t know joy was better than getting high.
Because the first time I smoked,
it tasted like that lake
where my friends and I swam on summer break.
Like the lips of the girl
I was never supposed to kiss...