Cheap Gin and Brown Limes

// Alyse Richmond

we met under yellow skies
of sand and fire just before
the hottest summer I’d known

in August we moved to the bay
where there are rats the size of
ground hogs, crack addicts in

the trees, on the bus, and police
tape around every corner marking
homicides. When it rains, it rains

hard, and we’re afraid our windows
will shatter, let the vagrants in. Night
after night they bellow in the alleys,

Don’t leave me baby! Look at what
I’ve become! And at 5:00am, like
clockwork, the neighbor in 110 turns

up the volume in time for televised
sermons. The Reverend explodes with
Jesus’ name, His word, His miracles

His love. And at 7:00pm, the theater
beneath our floorboards begins rehearsal
warbling scales with the piano, then

show tunes. We holler at them, mocking
their sing-songy voices, then walk to
the market on Charles for cheap gin

and brown limes. And we decide
we love it here, but can’t find a reason
to stay until we’re back in the desert

sweating, wondering when it will rain
listening for the songs and screams
of midtown by the bay