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Condado Beach, San Juan. Tourists washing the sand

off babies. Outside, a condom store

renders a promise in red lettering: PROTEGIENDO EL

PLANETA. Meanwhile I hold your face in my hands inside your car

and ask, do you want me, and you have to say yes, badly;

because I am wet and a return ticket is sending me home, the coconut

carts will degenerate into hot dog stands, Nueva York?

Yes, only I am so wet I cannot remember

avenues, do you want me, do you want me badly, and what else

can you do to a stranger but affirm, only this you do not do,

Juncos native, internet cologne, casino security, liar like a liar,

will you say you want me? I ask you like sediment on

a baby’s foot, or like the last slice of a plantain, when satiation

is already so far underway. Want it? By it I mean, can I have

a parallel universe on every corner of the earth, and by this I mean

can I leave a universe in you? Over the gear shift,

suck the skin of your neck. Will you say you want me,

only now you’re asking without answering,

do you want me? And I say god yes, real badly; this life

is not anyways how I’d dreamed it, the sex like an empyrean dream that doesn’t

happen. I don’t dream it.  Nails uncut. Dig the roots

inside me. Girl, you are fucking sexy. Slide around like the ether

beneath an ozone. No one yet sorry for no one.

 
poetry fiction poem sex beach love romance
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