In the middle of rain, sunflowers on the fence,
sheets left outside hung heavy with night,
Hanna sleeps. Such soft small breaths, easy.
I love her in my stomach, dream always
of being with her laughter in locker rooms,
passenger seat of her Volvo across sun-bright
desert, collapsed in grass post-soccer practice.
She is so straight. So in love with boys
named Mason, Josh, Andrew. So blue sky,
no worries, no deep untwistable truth.
And I am good practice. When we kiss,
lie on the couch cuddled up, it’s friends.
I spend the night. We wake to snow. Her mother yells
the sheets have froze. They look like ghosts.

There is a future where we dribble to the park,
step on toes, play music off phones,
past the black cows mooing, the long grass
of summer. Apricots: quarter moons, orange,
pinned fat to their canopy.

-Yes.

Can we-

A future where trees bend to be touched
by us. Us. With hands greased black
by bike chains, us—looking like boys,
laughing like girls—there is a future.
Where not even our parents can give us names.
Where we take nothing and run,
spitting pits off court playing HORSE.
A future where hearts beat up faces, faces
so blush, so love, so high-hilled and rolling.