Rosa

you are in bolivia now a country that I miss

so much because I haven’t ever been,

where you not only hug the neck

of a big metal llama but have friends.

But do they know small grade-school you

in a christmas play, carrying baby

Jesus by the neck under the american flag,

awesome? that summer we lie belly-down

on the sweet sticky grass with my

korean-english bible reading genesis

backwards because the important information

ought to be in the front and tried to find where god

said no girl/ girl kisses but only got up to

the earth, formless and empty like my tummy

when you said I told you so and I cried

and you called me a sore loser but really it was

more like a door to your room locked from one side

like your mouth crumby from a cookie like

the undersides of our cereal box friendship rings:

dark, and soft with sweat.