I. These days, the hurricanes reeve through skylines so fast. The roofs collapse over our wet heads. Saguaros peck at pterodactyl clouds. We are twins. Students of mutiny. We insist on safety, even if we have, contain nothing. II. Let’s build an aegis out of rocks. Let’s knit a coat out of clouds. Let’s planish armor out of the house that failed to protect our ugly frames. III. Pariah hour. We eat the food no one wanted: beachcomber fodder, skeletal meals that slowly dissemble, escargot shells and oxtail marrow. The raw pulps taste staccato. They stink under teeth, tongue-snipers. IV. Dirty with unguents and easy to bait: this is how we are portrayed on the radio. Once, a man asked if he could touch my hair. Is it true there are magical oils on these strands? He took me to his house that night. He wouldn’t tell me why; claimed he was sick, claimed he needed healing. Wouldn’t let me sleep on his bed. A soggy mesh of genitals desensitizing the lamplight, quietly. V. As if all kind moments were hoaxes: this is how we live. Blame it on our memories. The husks of sand creatures moving in streams where fish survive crystallized. Inside tree trunks, we gambled all our rot and lost everything. Pity is a cheap emotion, and all roads lead to ditches. Hitchhikers eat cobwebs in darkness, resuscitating the roadkill. VI. Above the singing sand dunes, we saw a woman give birth. Creature made of needles, clotted flesh, manic seed, who is the baby squirming in vernix? Our brother. The trees in the distance appear bridled as brides, their yellow trance wounding the cosmos. Origin of no returns: orphaned, water crawls back into the womb.