I imagine us as bricks, lying neatly against each other in a wall, cement in between
By Chelsea Bunn

We pretend we don’t live here.
In cars, we stare
out the windows, imagine we
are driving through small towns
in Maine or California.
Everything is different.
We are not sad.
The bricks stacked
remind me of us:
random, together,
cemented for life.
You are sad sometimes,
and I listen,
look out the window.
Pretend we are somewhere else.

This is where I was locked out
and banged on the kitchen window until
Aunt Mary Jane noticed my flashing
hot pink nails. Here where
Grandpa cooks enchiladas, we hear
the clicking of the garage door opening,

he drinks a beer slowly.
I want to photograph the sunset, the dead
tortoise shells in the backyard,
the crooked clothesline contraption,
the smell of dust and juniper in the garage.

I think you would have liked it.
The day we drove to Acoma Pueblo and
listened for war on top of the mountain,
noticed how the women stay inside, the boys
sell jewelry and bread from the kiln.
You would have climbed down with me.

This is the place where Grandpa tells
his stories, the basketball game playing
low from inside the den.
I have watched myself drown
in that hotel pool and thought

you would have seen me

first. You would have saved me.