The only time I’ve thought about you

is on a roadtrip to Washington, a roadtrip to
Kansas, California, Georgia, we took the Subaru

all the way to New Orleans to watch the parades,
to see

how beautiful something that wasn’t ours could
be, you know, without our help

like a flower you leave out on the windowsill
that is restlessly growing, you give it water maybe

two times a week, six a month, don’t count, but
it happens sometimes all the time, that matters, and

the whole thing just
keeps growing without your help, like all it needs

is the sun
isn’t that so crazy, to think that the only time I

thought about you was when I was driving somewhere
I didn’t know about, when I was watering plants

that weren’t mine because
everything I touch that could be alive it

likes to dry up and die without a second thought,
which makes me think, of course, about you

and how many times I
touched your head

we liked to sing and dance across mounds of
bonfires and say things like the Amazons and

we were very rowdy and our parents hated us
but if we thought hard about it we could love each

other, maybe you, maybe some other time in
another state

if America stops growing if I stop watering if
we take that trip to São Paulo to see my vovó can

we hold hands?

Quinn De Vecchi was born and raised in Hallandale Beach, Florida, and now lives in the busy Denver of Colorado. They have been published in Grub Street, Chiron Review, The Interlochen Review, The Northern Express, and others.