He leads me on his gold chain leash and yellow harness—butter
At the end of the three tiers of stairs where I’ve stuck half a
dozen screaming stickers I nudge Quan to the right, away from
the spot where I once posed as a beaver in a calendar cover
which is on the way to the spot where I tried to watch the sun
rise on the foggy morning I met you
and wrote a poem about it—leftover flowers and trains
Quan and I walk past families trampling pine tags, post-
Christmas kids crying, that one slouched spot where I saw the
sun set with a weak-kissed boy,
down and around my hiking trails, and past the abandoned pump
house where my first boyfriend shaved between my legs with a
I put Quan in my backpack, zip him half way in and we descend
the corroded ladder to a pre-teen girl who says he’s cute.
Anonymous flying insects swarm a wall we have to graze to get
to where the rocks read FUCK TROY.
Alison Miller is a writer and sex educator whose poetry has been published in various literary magazines including Cultural Daily, Hobart Pulp, and Bareback Magazine. The owner of sex positive adult boutiques in Richmond, Virginia, she currently resides in San Diego. She is the editor-in-chief of Throats to the Sky Magazine.