April
I started hiding from the world in the woods with this girl named April. She has the eclipse tattooed on her lower back. Beneath the eclipse is a black tree. She is transforming into moonlight through branches in the dark part of my bed. Rumor has it she is married to a cyclist who is world-ranked for his ability to not chafe. There he goes, pedaling his chopstick-shaped body up the reverse face of a mountain with a pack of obsessive machinists who practice their masochism regularly on carbon-fiber vehicles made for one. There they go, living dudes riding thong-seats into elevation as I slouch on a mid-couch and ponder betting the Underworld. Why am I always chopped? April picks me up from my Bounce House and we clear dead crocuses out from her trunk. We head towards the Gulf and stop at a Shell because she needs me to pump her tank full of Premium. When she leans forward to pop the gas cap beneath her door side, I see the eclipse tattoo again. The nozzle goes into her Prius with a perfect fit. Above the awning, seagulls mock each other for being ugly versions of angels. I am always pumping somebody new full of what they need. More often than not, they need to feel wanted, so I call the Sheriff and put a warrant out for their arrest. At the beach, April wades into the Gulf without me. I am going to get burned.