I wore a gray-black striped shirt. You made
me a cookie dough ice cream cake. We drank

Rebel IPAs that ended with a stabbing pain
in your stomach. You asked, are you mad I can’t

sleep with you? We drew a storm with cigarettes,
exchanged darkened clouds in our back alley.

And yes, we smelted iron before we slept,
and through this photo, I remember.

(originally published in Setu, Fall 2024)