Ciao, Pardner
Montana royalty

That cattle call in your heart
herds you home

Through the muck of indefinite pandemic
you freely, gruelingly gallop back to your family’s ranch 
twenty-five hours in two days

And now, much like early on in our love
everything in my environment 
magically smells like you

Your olive thighs must’ve
seared themselves into my 
sweaters, my 
coffee mugs, my
cutting board, my
potato patties, my
armpits

Like a lotion, your pheromones 
hibernate in my skin

The 
honey, the
garlic, the
rhubarb, the
Japanese beer, the 
Irish butter

It all remains without you

It is paralyzing

It is witchcraft

Crisis scrunches time
compartmentalizes it

Everything small is
so much

My evening’s end early, my 
mornings open even earlier so, my
alone life a 
trudge

But our shared love is
vigorous

The  attentiveness, the
coziness, the
championing, the
lust, the
farts so 
palpable

We are one hundred percent committed 
to the architecture of us, of our
forecasted kingdom

Isolated, I
aerate my mania
the back of my eyelids synthesize
their muddy patterns with your aroma into 
an ethereal you

Your braless body in that 
peach dress

In the mystic soil
that is the air above me
my hands massage and shape
the soles of your feet like
bricks of adobe

Every evening’s early end
bringing us closer to 
making a moat of southerner sweat 
around the bed
closer to 
christening our castle.

Venmo is @spencermirabal

Spencer Mirabal is poet and filmmaker based in Austin, Texas. His debut chapbook "Sweet Sad Sandal Boy" was published in 2019 by Lit City Press. Other semi-artistic activities include meticulously curating season playlists for his rabid 92 Spotify followers and tirelessly adjusting his fantasy basketball lineup.