november 28, 1933: from bonnie to clyde
bullets have nothing
on us. i remember how
your skin smelled of
gunsmoke the day
you first shot a man,
the fire that soaked into the
tips of your fingers.
how i laid you down
that night, made love
to a penitent, how you
begged forgiveness from
my hips, my breasts, my lips.
i granted what i could.
after, your eyes
were the barrel of a
pistol, gleaming
in the sunlight.
love, we were only
made of stars for
a second, infinite
in our light. this
is enough.
love, two killers
can still be innocents.
you spread your hands
to grab the horizon, smile
like a boy at the sun.
you laughed
the first time you saw
our names in the newspapers,
side by side. one and another.
there is no bonnie
without clyde, now.
the wedding band still on
my finger from
another man
means nothing.
you have breathed me in,
and i
am smoke in your lungs.
a century after they bury us,
bullet-holed and burning,
they will not know
which bones
were mine and which
yours. this
is no loss. to have,
even for a short time,
this sharing of breath,
our fingers
on the same trigger,
is a thing more light-filled
than the sun.
we can only outrun
the law for so long, let them
chase the exhaust
from our cars
down highways &
riverbanks.
you vow to see them
in hell, but
when all this ends, gunsmoke
and fire and our bodies
twisted in the wreckage,
i will take any eternity
where there is you,
and there is me, and
this is enough.
annaxmalina
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2087
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