les-be-honest

 

‘but she’s a girl’

my mother said

after I paid for dinner

& the valentines’ card was signed

with swirly, delicate style

not block capitals like my father’s

 

her body

like mine, but different

iridescent, a beacon in the

morning sun

dazzling her spine

like a torch

 

I touch, but it’s wrong

but it feels… ri-

yet we hold hands slyly

in the corner of the bus

 

no husband to pay the

bills, my parents fear

 

our legs intertwined in our

(air-raid) shelter

‘unnatural!’ the sirens blare

she, the lighthouse in the storm

(of my affections)

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