We drink Fernet by ironic sculptures under misters that make our bangs damp.

It’s our anniversary, though that time feels faint.

We are searching for a place to escape his diagnosis,

laws against gay marriage, our leaky, flat roof.

Every Memorial Day and Labor Day, we go to the desert.

Sometimes also the Fourth of July.

Palm Springs rewinds things. We almost buy that mid-century chair

proud of our rule that love for it needs to be immediate.

At the Parker, a guy with a calf tattoo brings drinks.

You can ask for anything here. We toast to another year without cancer.

After dinner, we wander the hotel hedge maze, nowhere to go that late but home.

Christian Gullette


by Christian Gullette