(not quite) a literary journal


Cousins, by Emilee Araujo

Barefoot bicycle rides
in triple digit weather.
The refreshing summer
breeze wipes the sweat from
our foreheads, as we
cruise down the neighborhood.

Chihuahuas spit their high-pitched barks,
as we stroll past, pink and lime green
houses with chained fences and
christmas lights in june.

A neighbor’s rottweiler escapes
their yard, chasing us down the road.
The youngest scream from the back pedals.
More thrilled than scared, we speed off,
to the overpass where we sit above the
busy highway, our legs dangling from
open spaces in the railing.

Fingertips covered in flaming hot cheeto
dust pass the liter of soda,
from one cousin to the next.
The golden hour illuminating our concrete
picnic, and the filthy city around us.
As the baby of our pack drinks what’s left,
the bottle slips from her hands, onto the road,
trampled, under heavy wheels
until it is plane.

By nightfall we make our way back
to Abuelita’s, and nestle closely on
the sofa bed. Our eyes fixed upon the
popcorn ceiling, it’s kernels
scattered every which way,
Our minds try leisurely to
find meaning in it’s constellations.

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