On the summer of our puberty
I was told it was the neighbor’s cat
That fed our bellies for a week
You were fuming
And incantatory
Speaking some unknown language
As strange and foreign as the wind.
As children we hid
On the balconies of our
ancestral homes,
curved and cantilevered.
Gushing about first loves
And unending erections
By the bay
we gathered conchs
and gossiped
I sit here
Waiting
Collecting Scars
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