To Esther (6/14/21)

Do you remember? We were stuck

in the Valley Fair parking lot

in your camry, Glass Animals

on the speakers.

I saw you and you were busy

trying to merge lanes.

You cursed under your breath

but you were very beautiful.

Our dresses in the back—

over a month’s worth of savings,

mine a blushing floral

and yours black chiffon—

I’m holding onto it

because when I wear that dress

I think of you. The way we shared

the fitting room and you brought

those dresses inside.

We couldn’t afford them,

but it didn’t matter.

When I think of you

I think of impossibilities.

You say you don’t believe in God

but I’ve seen the way you prophesy:

that bitch is gonna switch lanes

in five seconds. And he did.

Or the time we were having pizza

in Los Gatos and you asked

for too many toppings on our bruschetta

and an old lady came to us

and tried to tell us Donald Trump

was still America’s president.

You said she was going to walk

into the strange antique shop,

probably to find herself in it,

and she did.

There’s too much

I want to hold on to—

sunsets at Vasona park,

eating hot cheetos

with plastic forks.

In those moments, I look at you

and I know what love is.

I look at you

and I believe in God.