Tenderness resides in the hands 
of a woman hugging another woman.
But then there is abandonment
in all the hugs offered, because
we go in between the soft armpits 
to lose ourselves, where there won't 
be a test to differentiate sweat and tears.
Slanting sadly like a parallelogram we let ourselves to be robed,
totally aware of the presence of
another Promethaueus stealing fire.
In shoulders of drained souls
we let out our innocent anger, 
painful like an elegy, 
coating it with vaseline,
for the porosity of privilege.
The loneliness of Pluto shivers in us,
unaware of the ocean currents disappearing since there are no telescopes interested to look after us with their magnificent curiosity.
Like eyes of a market fish rolling around , remembering a home
somewhere in the coral pool, 
we look at each other,
over a book review shared.
I don't tell you that  
covered in gasoline is my heart,
waiting to be folded into a red star 
and sit in your breast pocket,
waiting to bloom into a rose 
when magicians wand touches it.
Instead I talk of my grief in ambiguous terms, equating it with the image of a suitcase-
a suitcase being dragged, not carried.
I tell that it is difficult to change loneliness into magic and so 
I sewed it into something decent, 
but I dare not to say that 
I call it a poem.
The ache of being alive, 
lazily stretches like an alligator, 
praying to the same God
on birthdays and funerals.
A notorious copy of all feathers 
the ancestors forget to burn
flips themselves inside us.
And this is when I want to tell you that
My throat is a safe place for your cries 
so when I open my mouth 
make sure to kiss me.

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