—I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY NOW

 

We Meet During a Plane Crash

 

Nose-diving toward earth, suitcases and sundries bouncing off our noggins like fists and elbows. She screams as if she’s my type, an extrovert on amphetamines. “WHAT’S YOUR SIGN?” A toddler flies by wide-eyed and jowly. A granny, too, folded up like a pizza box. A priest clings to one of the overhead bins. When the flight attendant says, “We should be landing shortly,” you’re the first one to jump.

Uncle 

 

I French kiss the siren that’s been stitched over your tonsil bell. It bobs like a buoy with nowhere to go. Lines the cave of your mouth, shooting swirls of electric flush across your molars. Next, the ventriloquist on your lap crushes my groin with his wooden grip, his jaw clattering like castanets. When I finally say, “Uncle,” you ask, “Uncle what?” while the piñata rains down more gum than either of us has ever seen, or will ever chew.