by Luiza L., 18
How small we were
with our handmaid skirts
threading needle to cloth
and spilling orange juice into our insatiable mouths.
At this time we knew only about asking:
the shapes of dissolved clouds
and where did the sun go
after the sky succumbed to the darkness.
There was so much for us
to see & taste & love.
The sun’s cheeks flushing into melody,
bees circling our wrists in the backyard.
Like summer, we rubbed our chubby
hands together, our interlaced fingers
sticky with red popsicle & both of us
laying in dead stalks of grass.
Remember how well we knew each other?
How easy it was to be one.
We sang as we walked
the steep green hills and
cultivated the plain cornfields.
Our voice building with a wave of sound
wide enough to rock deep water
and knock birds off trees.
And in all those moments
all I could think was
this is what it means to love.
We could not help being astounded by
the beauty of this land that was not ours
but we held that swelling truth in our hearts.
Even if little, what we had, you & me,
was worth this entire country.
Belo Horizonte, Brazil
Bridge Ink 