I’m not a hot mess;
I’m cold and neat.
Like a breeze over the bay,
quieting humidity.
Or a spot in the shade
where the sun doesn’t reach.
Or a kiss on the neck,
because the lips are too sweet.
Am I in the wrong city?
The ground doesn’t hug me
as I drag my feet.
I stomp. It screams,
like Latinas shaking ass
half past three,
as if Eve plucked mimosas
off the tree.
But you wouldn’t recognize me
without the heat.
The ice wouldn’t melt
without Miami.
No wonder it’s tempting
to sink my teeth
into another hot mess
that’s no good for me.