In conversation with .. 4!

When I was younger, I used to run from
my parent’s house all the way to the
beach, all the way to the tall, brown fence
that rose from the sand to mark the limits
of my country, a border that, to this
day, keeps growing taller. Some people
say it grows to make space for more
names to be written on it. The names
of the lost, the names of the dead, the
names of the mothers and fathers and
children and lovers, lovers just like us,
separated by the doings of those whose
understanding of the world does not fit
compassion. So, I do what I do best and
cry. I cry for you, and I cry for everybody
else because that’s the only thing I can
do. I cry for myself last, and then I keep
the tears in a jar to remind myself that
sometimes sorrow deserves to be held as
tenderly as we hold joy.
It is on this beach that I sit to write this
letter. My bed is the sand, and the sheets
are the waves that leave on me the scent
of the bodies they shower. This kind of
loneliness feels so familiar. The turning
of the handle, the piling of cups and
glasses and wraps, the not-looking-forward-to-anything
that comes like clockwork
when I stare at accumulated toilet
paper used to wipe the cum off my belly,
reminiscent of sweaty armpits and
long-overdue showers, and that heaviness
and that knot on the side of the neck
that, like a night bird, keeps me turning
and twisting down and to the right, forward
and to the left, up and down and
then a momentary sense of relief before
the handle turns again.
I don’t know how to drive, but last night I
dreamt I knew how to just to go see you,
and when I drove across the border the
CBPs had no questions, the freeway lay
empty, and you were waiting for me at
12 & Imperial just like the first time we
met, with your shorts on and your hair
in twists, waiving and calling my name,
smiling the way we both smile with
wrinkles around our eyes, and we took
the trolley up to Seaport Village, and we
talked about making chicken stew for
dinner, and we bought a small bag of
cuties, and we ate them all in one sitting.
It’s strange to think of a time when I took
your embrace for granted, your fingers
braided with mine, our legs clasped together
in bed, how I’d turn to let you hug
me from behind in the middle of the
night, putting your warm palms over my
lower stomach, how you’d whisper “my
baby, my baby, my baby, I love you, my
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