by S. Makai Andrews
like tics latching onto sweet flesh,
ed doughnuts from gas station checkouts where
they run out of fresh fruit, pack it into cocktail sauce.
I’ve seen a hundred postcards like this
the golden panes of the house
they sold when I was seven.
when I could treck through the oasis,
country club walls polished until they shine
the smell of grass to pretend it isn’t
while across the way bronzed faces
where adults sneak liquor in plastic pineapple cups
if you’re still in the water –
mama told a story of a girl
no one has scissors in their juice boxes
a crutch missing its screw
the desert soaks in water until
under the ice
Author Biography: S. Makai Andrews was born and raised in Los Angeles. Her work was recognized in multiple genres in the Scholastic Arts and Writing Competition, and has been published in The Noisy Island and Beautiful Minds, among others. In the future she hopes to further her studies in writing and psychology.