Catalina Street by Rachel Inez Lane

What is it about Catalina Street
that makes me miss him?
Is it the tops of the black palms

floating up like lost balloons
or is it the pushup bra I found
under the lemon tree? On my

street abandoned couches
wag their tongues and take
Bedbugs for lovers. Where thin

walled fights remind me
of the ache of being fucked,
of being kissed everywhere

but my mouth, and how
does one escape the heartbeats
of looming helicopters

overhead trying to find
a man who belongs
near the carnival

near the side of town where
broken lamps, Popsicle sticks
and jails go to sleep.

I dreamed I said, yes
I dreamed the ring dug so
deep he had to chop off my

hand just to save me, so when I
miss him does it taste like ginger,
or look like a stolen car?

I never knew where he was,
to me he was just a plane
I could see when the smog drained

and tonight, I watch two children
get spit out on Catalina Street.
I watch while they dig

through dumpsters, while the girl,
tells the boy, to please, hold me
and hold me. To please

grab her ankles even if they break,
so she can search for empty bottles
and without hesitation she gives

him the broken ones, gives
him the green ones
and when everything is gone

smears the blood from her
hands all over her shirt, right
where her breasts will be.


One response to “Catalina Street by Rachel Inez Lane

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