grimed streetlamps light
pavement plagued with glass
straining—the moon doesn’t come around here
police sirens sing strawberry blueberry
and your hair smells like papaya
youthful energy
in the skulking night gangs
baby-faced boys with jutting chins
hoping guns turn them men
they won’t bother us anyways
this bodega smells like
donkeys and cigarettes and sulfur
we heave ourselves over the fence
to the neighborhood pool
your dad thinks you like boys
the water is warm and
chartreuse in cheap starlight
I hold you
all elbows and grasshopper legs
you taste like chlorine and summer
Unso much dirt in this
town
I kiss the crime rates from your neck
you point out how the broken glass bottles
look like diamonds
if we squint and tilt our heads
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