Dara-Lyn Shrager
In Silver Lake, I wash
my clothes outdoors
and the dog pees
on a 2x2 pad of Astroturf.
Thin air falls from
the San Gabriel mountains,
but in the reservoir, I choke
and wheeze. Some days
I stop speaking just
to save my breath.
This suite of bungalows
was built in 1920,
close enough to Hollywood
for early-morning call
times. Now, among lemon
trees and dry brush,
half a dozen strangers
share a courtyard
of cactus blooms
and a washer/dryer
under a crib sheet.
At dusk, fires light
themselves. A Bounce
dryer sheet scents
the air. I hold a beer
bottle in my hand.
You arrive speaking
softly so as not to disturb
neighbors, whose heads
we see through brown, slatted
shades. They are vaping
and selling scripts into phones.
In Silver Lake, I wish
that we could catch
our breath when we open
our mouths to kiss.
After midnight, we walk
my dog on the strip,
pull him past taco wrappers
flattened to the street.
The air smells of sharp
smoke, and neon lights
bathe your face
in manufactured beauty.
I am pretending with you.
Watch me on the giant orange
spinning chair by
Medicine of The Angels.
Then, I'll watch you.
Push off—
cars and palm trees whirl.