Lived-In Skin

Candles blown out,

celebration over.

Two strong and calloused

hands push you from behind, hard.

You’re flung over the edge of Carelessness

into a crevasse of Responsibility.

You look around at the scene,

depressing and real,

at the world they’ve given you.

Your small arms tremble under the weight

of war and disease, hunger and debt.

It smells of garbage and depression.

Dry lips mouth the same questions:

What will you do and how will you do it?

Tongues wag like excited dogs,

waiting to pounce on your irresponsibility

or live vicariously through your lucky chances.

With a chin in the air, you’ll tell them of

summer nights in Barcelona, balmy and tepid.

A man named Frederiko who rolls his R’s

with lips the color of babies. He gives you

roses that look like blood

and calls you bonita.

Tell them of air that tastes like curry

and dark eyes that search parts of

you you didn’t know were there.

Little brown hands in yours

lead you through a land of plenty,

a land of poverty.

You will be bold in dark places.

Tell them of festivals in the mud.

Hippies dance, the music their only partner,

shirtless, their pink and green peace beads jump happily on

their exposed chests while the rain makes

happy trails down their leather-brown and lived-in skin.

That’s what you’ll tell them,

you want skin that’s been lived in.

{photo here}