I taught him English words, taught him "gamble" and "****." I taught him "lullaby," and he taught me his favorite French pick-up line: something about thieves.
My clumsy tongue and chapped lips, my Southern twang made him laugh.
We went to a show together - a punk band with a ****** name – and he left early, left me with a wink. I fought for my life in that concrete room, gasping for air, swinging arms wildly. The next morning he kissed all my bruises.
His gap-toothed smile is a poem I wish I had written.
I am here I am staying here I am the same I am unchanging I am a ******* perpetual motion machine please strand me on a desert island I will survive by eating sand I am here I am staying here with my back to the sun my skin will burn I will curse the recessive traits of my father
I will regress into the days of caves and I will paint my face on the walls and I will paint my face on the stones so thousands of years from now French boys can find them and wonder am I the missing link I am the weakest link you can find me if you try your fingernails can scrape the rock but the earth will cry and tell you I was never born but if you scatter the bones of your fathers all will be forgiven: for God so loved the world he gave his only forgotten son and I sometimes see his face on the walls and
oh god I am here I am staying here I am the same I am unchanging.