I taught him English words,
taught him "gamble" and "fuck."
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 shitty 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.