People tend to keep to themselves around here.
But true residents flood the saloon until lukewarm ale spills over glass rims,
and raucous group laughter fills the air.
Rafael rides into town on Sunday after church lets out.
Those who catch sight of him, before he shifts to the outskirts, see him sign la cruz.
Hart rides in on a black horse and blends into the saloon’s floor and ale and blood.
The whores find him charming, handsome
the barmen find him strong, capable.
Hart finds himself on the outskirts after too many glasses,
puking into what little vegetation grows.
Pendejo, go get sick somewhere else. Rafael sits on a large rock,
stained rough hands over a small fire.
Ain’t no problem, Hart slurs, falling backward
The stars blur together in the ink tapestry of the sky
It’s a problem to me, Rafael frowns, pulls the darkness around himself
Hart laughs, the vibrations of his chest move the stars
Rafael soon lays down as well, sees the stars shake across the sky,
What are you?
Hart laughs harder, I ain’t ever been a good man.
Rafael sighs, he reaches out and quenches the fire with his hand,
Not much left to do good with, he says.
Hart lolls his head to the side, looks at Rafael
Pull those stars down here, since you stubbed the fire,
he sighs and rests a hand on his stomach, not much of a host, are you?
Rafael’s frown lightens, the stars come a bit closer, light their bodies
splayed side by side, warm the chill from their bones.
I don’t usually have company.
Hart smiles, that much I can tell.
The light of the stars glints off their eyes, crinkled at the corners,
their smiles embroidered onto the sky.
Brianna Simmons roams museum exhibits like an anthropological cryptid. Looking for inspiration in every corner, cranny, and cranium, she writes about humans through the lens of curiosity.