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Icy and golden,
I dare not taste that sour liquid for fear of
the skin-to-skin contact that makes me humble,

 the kind that drives people to find their G-d

 (breadcrumbs of faith, wine cups of tradition, paper scraps of worry.)

I spent that summer sweaty next to my best friend.
We spent hours putting cards in our spokes, riding around the neighborhood – always a determined look pasted on our faces when passing by the girls in manila church skirts. That day, the predominately Mormon community was deserted and boiling, dusty hot. My father built me a lemonade stand, with dreams of rags to riches. I have no patience for lemons or the ade they create – Me, a martyr, pouring that liquid into the sewer so my friend and I could say
“Look, Dad, look at how much lemonade we sold!”.
I felt a sacred duty, a designed purpose
To pour that crisp cool summer drink directly through the storm drains.
To save their esophagi from the deadly caress of said liquid born in yellow.
To dream of fluids beyond the quasi-nightmare of an ocean in dandelion tones.
It’s strange –
Before I emptied the pitcher
through those steel slits
I never noticed how flavor electric
His empty promises were.
Weeks later I throw my prayer rags
in the air and Cupid will carry them to Timbuktu
(the other final destination not conducted by His truly).
They hang in the air with bated breath like
unpaid interns serving cups of freshly brewed French press coffee.