Bike Week- a Big ol’ Florida Memoir

Still light, yellow. Temples faced at the sky, the church of recollection echoes with ‘Old Florida’ shrimp spices. Gasoline and salty motorcycles revv by with the pattern of pulse in my neck. Fish intestines on the white plastic-pipe chair stick to the pads of my feet. Tongues around my silver earrings strung to a gentle kiss on my upper cheekbone, flexed with the pulp of key limes and gritty with the sand smashed in my molar. Wet around our lip, salt or spit? Black cat fur burns my chin splashed with the waves of your hair and loved by your fingertips. The sour orange tree dangling above your Honda Stick, a pill of gladness marinating in that Jeep, infused with rancid incense and chlorine.