I Panama by la guarani I wanted so bad for you cherry red skin boy with smooth hips cleaving water surrounded by a hurricane of children shouting your ohso melodious name wanted so bad for you to understand my broken Span glish syllables of overheated/natural/ indoor flesh interrupted by a gray city where walls hold cold that seeps into the marrow of my bones. I wanted so bad for you who had never stuttered in harsh wind comin down broadway Januaries to show me how to dance without glidin steps being cut short by bullet hail stop n start poppin an lockin Wanted to dissolve into a round moon late nite rerun travel brochure slow note temperate breeze dream with you in a picture postcard place my parents had run from years ago in search of Cadillacs. Wanted so bad for you to identify my frozen limbs caught out in a 3 am doorway huddlin into a Newport listenin to a jail song escapin from the 5th floor of a crumbling collection of cockaroaches, fadin skin and sazon held like a sacrament in tight packed jars. Wanted you to identify this body washed up on your consecrated dream like shore as your own waited for you to recognize the line of home in the creases of my body thought you could let me believe I was made of this same sugar as you who never really left these fragrant ancestral groves but you just envied my winter skin and wanted to wear my american bubble coat in 80 degree weather like it was the first day of school and you called me white names axed me for money and me bein la gringa there was no spider web left after all to tie me to you across an ocean where hope drowns somebody dropped the cord somewhere along the line that was supposed to allow our sprint/at&t $10 phonecard connection and all your elegant body flitting across Hato Pintado became was replayed TV movies pouring regular blue light into my almost silent chill-drawn bedroom static crackled into walls where it peeled paint and frayed the quilt with midnight anxious hands that I pulled up into the edge of an ebony nite studded only by boomboom lickashot and the red warm clinging canesweet blood of my little brother hiding razors on his singin tongue. I wanted so bad for you to understand, to unlearn me my edges.
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