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I don’t remember how we started
holding each other pressed against
the Dr. Pepper machine. Always
tasting her corn syrup as our
tongues tied themselves into knots. We spent
every dismissal squeezing her
hips, my shoulders, our hands exploring
the wonders of our young bodies.
My fingers beneath her Hilfiger,
her palms buried in my chinos.
Between breaths, I inhaled her essence,
herbal in her hair, Calvin Klein
on her skin. Yet under all of her
American chemical scents
I smelled rice, ylang ylang, and home.
Home wasn’t her parent’s gated
community, nor the fist sized holes
in my drywall. Home was the pores
Of her brown skin and the shape of her
eyes. Inside her were the islands
we both called home. Home was the clumsy
moves of our mouths as we tried to
say, “binago mo ang buhay ko” *
It didn’t work out.