summer child

On the rare mornings the fog clears

and my mind is free,

the mirror reminds me of

exuberant water balloon fights

and the red Sun warm against my eyelids

and through my golden salty skin,

drying from afternoon showers,

and of fireflies whispering brightly

and so desperately

to one another

and to me

as the night drops slowly, again.

“I don’t know what to call you in this language.”

And that’s what I love about words

because if I don’t have one in my repertoire

you probably do in yours

and that’s why we need each other

so desperately

and that’s why that night

in that bar in Nashville

(so close to my home and so far from yours)

when you told me

raro was the only name for me:

unusual and

odd and

quirky and

extraordinary and

queer,

I smiled.

On the days I don’t belong in English,

I have a home in Spanish.

And other days

there’s room for me in French

or Arabic

or Afrikaans

or davvisámegiella,

the language of my mother.

Beautiful friend,

our difference reminds me

there’s always room.

A cobblestone patio

and dancing shadows

café lights jostled by the wind

and you

and me

and a bottle of wine

and the flamenco

and the crickets

alive and laughing together

here in the summer night