In the beginning, there was a boy who touched me as he shouldn't have. His hands around my ankles—claustrophobic— a plot of cattails on the water's black silt. We all have a story like this, innocent in its setting, nefarious how it stays spurred into our bones as we grow. I think I knew I was a boy when the boy touched me. I know this boy is now a violent man with a large collection of semi- automatic rifles. Some things are so absolute. The point at which rain becomes snow. The way fruit eventually spoils even under unblemished skin. If I make a metaphor of my body, it's a desert. One part longing, one part need, the rest withstanding. Of course I would prefer to be thirsty for nothing. I'd rather do so much than be touched in this angry dark. Violent men want me to be a violent man. Or they want me dead. What a privilege to have an option.
Craig Santos Perez Wins Nautilus Book Award "Craig Santos Perez, a CHamoru poet based in Hawaii, was awarded the gold medal Nautilus Book Award for his 2020 book, 'Habitat Threshold,' which showed that extreme warming is already upon the Pacific." viaPACIFIC DAILY NEWS
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