Orlando’s dead, I thought

As my little sister and I, crammed in the backseat

Got driven around by our parents

And a realtor named Ellie-

Who had white hair, dentures

And a sweet Southern smile.

 

Ellie passed away a year after we moved,

And Orlando is still as dead as she is-

Despite living there for a fourth of my twenty years.

My Californian heart misses winding roads,

Rolling hills, jammed highways,

And the diversity of beachdesertforestmountain.

 

But as dead as Orlando is, it pulls the intermittent Lazarus-

Rising to the occasion every night I spend

Piled in the back of three different cars-

A beat up Oldsmobile, a souped up Sunfire,

Or an air freshened Toyota. We drive off-

A cloud of smoke, rebellion, and youth.

 

My boys and I- we are necromancers-

We take the deceased Orlando and make it ours

On those eternal summer nights- when they

Smoke too much, I laugh too much,

When we revel too much in our

Own freedom and power.

 

Our kingdoms are those of the night-

Orlando’s a vampire. We own Meridian-

A hookah lounge that smells of summer

And fruit. We have the pier- a small boat dock

Populated by stars, alligators, and mosquitoes.

~But the last place we own~

 

~Is our driveways

They smoke, I laugh, they dance

He and I kiss~

 

We are the Necromancers of Orlando.