Mess With my Water’n I’ll Come After You

The man with expressive eyes scoffs
at the smell of Lake Erie, in a slightly Americanized

Puerto Rician accent, It just stinks. And it’s dirty
water. Caribbean currents rain in his heart for something

even being bilingual can’t help him describe. Her skin has

been ripening under Misery Bay sunsets to a toasted almond
glowing plume radiating warmth of the short humid

summer. It makes her eyes glow

some bioluminescence. She utters, Just give me water,
no matter where it is, or what its name is, or in what language

its name is spoken, and I’ll be fine.


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