I practice kissing my mouth in the mirror, even now. God lives on my block, dusky skin, sharp green eyes. God has a sweet bike and a sweet mouth. He tastes like winter, like hot peaches from a metal trunk. His hands turn from one to the other, as he tells me a story of him as a child, it sounds like a dream. A frustrated dark skinned child drowning a blonde kid in a lake, struggling for air like a rattle of pills in the palm. His sister Lavender paces the living room in lieu of leaving. Sits awkwardly on the couch while we wait for Him to get ready. Lavender has a birthmark the shape of Africa on her shoulder. Her mouth feels like an open flame. I try not to think about it, but I feel maybe, I wanted this more. A cheap plastic cross, a finger stretching out one long sigh. God putting me in the trunk of Lavender’s car, and driving me to the river, no hands. All mouth. Bruises pooling in the places we don’t touch.