wildscape. literary journal

Paradise City
by kyrah gomes

“Some of them say that we're sick, or crazy, and some of them think that we're the most gorgeous special things on earth.” - Venus Xtravaganza, Paris is Burning


Venus, we’re on the prowl tonight. At the pharmacy, between the cashier's slow blinks, I tucked your favorite sweets into my pocket. Remember when a rotisserie fed us for the week? I wrapped the wishbone in your soft hands, showed you where to tug. I aimed to conjure the highest heels, furs for days, endless Soul Train reruns. Fat sandwiches of cash. Men like jellybeans, gooey black cherries to toss into our waiting mouths. Friday means no shift at the slaughterhouse in Howard Beach, only the rupture of laughter like an open hydrant on a muggy day. Your sisters are out, swarming the parks and lining the stoops, stunting their splendid plumes. White-hot giggles spring from the same stomachs that fill with bile when the dollars won’t stretch. I welcome it all. You need no mask, firefly in mink, my insect apparition. Your tightrope arms strung across decadent rows of shoulders. White socks hiked past the knee, you wander into the fountain, droplets of water gracing the miniscule territory of your throat. Our landscape nearly buckles under the fullness of you, the array of graffiti and rubble transformed to a sweeping jungle, the sewer water to pink, bubbly champagne. Never mind the lies we keep as lullabies or linings for sleep. Unclasp your jaw, that weighty coin purse, and let them hear you roar.

about the author // kyrah gomes