We were refugees against the usual things. I scattered baby teeth around the perimeter. Things like bruschetta confused me. I picked up rastering body parts and I blew them out like bubbles, like store signs. I existed in the ear canals of the stacked cities. Many bells sounding at the same time opened up to Americans standing on scales. Holding their skin in calipers. I loved Jesus so much. I rubbed and rubbed until my bracelets fell off of me.

From Loves You. Copyright © 2019 by Sarah Gambito. Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Persea Books.