Down in Barrio Escalante, two men unmask 

in front of each other for the first 

time. Margarita is slimmer

than he purported to be, Mojito 

grew a beard since his last profile pic.

Still they sip, inch closer.

I follow you past gladioli,

ruffled blades jutting from their green hilts.

Then up the trail—peonies, violets, daffodils.

They head out early to avoid 

the Uber exodus. 

Margarita holds tight, looks up.

The moon is a stop sign 

unheeded.

All it takes is a swift twitch of my voice

to join the cicada’s serenade.

But will it move you?

A gust to your weathervane?

Margarita’s rosary swings 

back and forth on Mojito’s 

chest, a shadow flirting 

with possession.

Then relief, two bodies

lying on bed sheets.

The fan is insufficient.

On the hill, eons ahead, 

your nose sinks in a bed of carnations.

Mojito zips away.

Margarita locks his gate,

smokes a cig.

I get closer to see the color

that you’ve left.

Red or striped?

The petals.