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.