Last night was terrible. I spilled 
The coffee all over your favorite shirt 
And you were having an asthmatic attack.
We went out last night to dance 
And we wanted a few more libations 
Than what the body could handle —
But we’re young. This is the beginning 
Of passion a medium once told us.
Outside the snow barely stared to fall.
You began a fresh batch of medium roast.
It was August. The air was ripe.
I kissed you more often than not. 
I don’t know very much about love 
Is what you said while we were both naked.
There’s little of the world we know about 
I thought to say. But kept quiet. We kissed.
It’s Summer again and your body is beautiful.
We both saw a snake swivel along the grass,
And someone thought this was an omen.
We kissed and kissed and I believed in it.
These are the necessities in life: believing 
In the things out of the reach. The acacia tree
Is in the desert but I can see the yellow 
With my eyes closed. I can see the bark 
Of the spine, erect and godly. We’re kissing
Again. So many kisses, so many beliefs 
Running along the ground. Last night, again,
Was terrible. With what little we have left,
We kissed.



I stoked the skin, 
saw the goose-bump flesh,
We pissed in a cup 
And gave it to the wind.
What’s gender 
Without you inside my body.
A little more. A little 
To the left. Kiss my lips.
The bitter tongue is all 
That we have left
After the loneliness. 
The tongue and pear tree;
The skin and burnt blanket. Isn’t love
Reckless like this; 
Don’t you give it to the wind.
Touches of the body; 
Cities rising from earth.
I saw you across the bar. 
We had a beer or two.



Love is such an industry you told me

Nibbling the left-side of my neck 

Without any harm. Attractive, I thought,

Not your obviously beautiful face, but

How much we were at the end of love

While the hydrangeas began their bloom.

The air is more valuable because we existed.

That is what I wanted you to know 

Before you left. It happened

While we kissed atop the steps 

Of a high-rise. I haven’t known a passion 

Quite this tall until it was absent 

From the lips; the hands. 

It’s such an industry being this ripped open

I suppose is what you meant. 

Our clothes were off. We kissed

On the grass; along a building; on cement.

There was no harm in our leaving.

Only passion, love, at the end of its season.

Anthony Aguero.jpeg

Anthony Aguero

is a queer writer in Los Angeles, CA. His work has appeared or will appear, in Carve Magazine, Rhino Poetry, Cathexis Northwest Press, 14 Poems, Redivider Journal, Maudlin House, and others.