she passed a bullet from her tongue
to mine.
it tasted like blood—
metallic, sweet as the lilies lining 
our sisters’ desert graves.

she placed a pomegranate on my head,
shot seeds into bone-dry air
and licked the juice from the corners
of my bloodshot eyes.

I cut her hair into a batea
drank whisky under the stars
and picked gold flakes from the scars
adorning her scalp.

the four of us left,
turned scorpions out of our boots
patched up holes in our knees our lives
and headed west

chasing the sunset over
and over
and over the horizon
again.