"I can brush my teeth in both languages!"

Yes, let's.
Let's go to Spain,
and get married
in a big, fuck-all cathedral.
Let's suck Madrid
in soda water angel hairs
foreseen in gin-tonics we never
pay for.

Yes.
Let's be Parisian affairs
half-past midnight moons,
a one bedroom apartment
on the Champs-Elysees.
Let's sit in cafes in Spring,
the rain pouring misting slumbering
gently down,
wearing wide-brimmed tea hats and
questioning
about the weather in London
this time of year.

Yes.
Let's pastry in Berlin,
custard spilling on hands
ganache slipping on fingers
sticky sweet face kisses
over brunch on Sunday
when everyone else
is in church.
Long walks between
Turkish markets and Lidl,
one for kebab seasoning
and one for potato squat soup.


Yes.
Let's sunglass Morocco,
roll in the desert dust,
wide-eyed peyote visioned desert dreaming.
Let's sing the mosque oasis
through our lungs and run
each Casablancan day from start to start
screaming at the top of our lungs,
"Yanqui go home!"
because this is not Cuba;
they could still shoot
us
at any moment.

Yes.
Let's escape all facades
of the American lexicon,
let's say what we mean and
swallow the bitter pill words later.
Let's tongue trill foreign words
and stamp them on our skin,
a million visas,
"My passport is my body."

Let's be universal bribes
of bridalry
take what we want
and favors be damned --
if you can't write,
we don't love you/
and that/
is final.