by Hedgie Choi

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.