Strawberry

Fat cherub, an orphan with bruised thighs, my very fuckable brother. 

Stoned again. Without consequence. 

When he sleeps. The curve of his neck in my light. Gold chain on his chest, kissing between the ribs, under his sheets. 

Paradise is my chained dog. Paradise has to be beautiful. 

The dog didn’t always know shame, but now that he does, it feels too familiar. I took him out back and shot him on Wednesday. I left him in the garden next to the sun bleached palm as this grotesque permanent wound. It's time to replant the daylilies. Again. 

God made me deathbound and sexed. God kisses my top lip, then my neck and pulse—as if savoring something he’s already forgetting. He tells me I'm eternal. 

Someone once told me my brother's body was “immaculate.” Which I knew. This time was odd. This time was about him dead inside his Toyota. I had pictured something more violent—strawberries exploding on the I-5, a supernova of ripe fruit. A stag full of blood; sprawled across the main road in our hometown. The ones the cars found first during hunting season. Easy prey. Embarrassing, almost, to be killed by a truck just because it was larger than yours. 

I call him Gram Parsons, My cowboy. My little lamb. 

After he died his friends lit him on fire in the desert. Freckles, shoulders, hazel hair, switchblade, fresh oleander, and anemic snakes. Pain, swift like biting a plum. 

When I first heard that story, I wondered what it would be like to not have to think about my body.

Paige Greco is an artist, writer, and curator living in Los Angeles, CA. Recent published works of hers can be found in Artillery Magazine, Diva Corp. Mag 1, Spectra Poets, Dream Boy Book Club, No More Prostitutes, Dirt Child Vol 4, Dear Zine, and Seasons of Des Pair, amongst other places. She burns and bruises easily.