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​

                                                                        Refugee
                                             I.
                                             Granada, Spain


                                             A man named Javier, who speaks less
                                             English than my Spanish, kisses me
                                             against a sticky June night.


                                             Such urgency, fervor in his approach,
                                             his tongue                 a swirling tornado
                                             my mouth      spiraling         spinning.


                                             I take his face between my hands
                                             (feel his sweat on my fingertips)
                                             pull back so slightly             so slightly
                                             our lips still touch                             whisper
                                             despacio        despacio.
                                             II.        
                                             Brooklyn, NY


                                             Before the sun wakes
                                             I’ll be on my way
                                             to Spain
                                             when I return
                                             you’ll be gone.


                                             It’s our last night together
                                             you’re suspended in sleep                        stretched
                                             over me like I’m not here
                                             in this moment    
   
                                             I can’t sleep.
                                             I can’t quit looking at the clock,
                                             can’t stop thinking about the pathology
                                             growing inside of me; the emptiness
                                             you’re about to unfurl.


                                             Can’t sleep    can’t quit looking     can’t stop thinking
                                             about time and how it deceives--
                                             leads us into thinking it’s infinite
                                             when truly it’s fickle                         fleeting          
                                             waiting           for the perfect moment
                                             to leave us.


                                             Your arm, your leg, draped across me
                                             like a warm blanket, like a straight jacket
                                             cradling me close,
                                             (I exist only in this moment)
                                             I close my eyes                     begin
                                             counting backward.


                                             III.
                                             Granada, Spain


                                             Me encanta el color rojo en los labios de una mujer
                                             Javier says, after we’ve finished
                                             the bottle of Crianza at the outdoor cafe.
                                             Is he referring to my lip-gloss
                                             or the wine?


                                             In the distance I hear a woman
                                             singing. Her Spanish voice
                                             like an angel
                                             weeping.        I recognize
                                             a few of her words:
                                             corazón deseo               tristeza 


                                             I am so familiar with a language I barely understand.


                                                   ALYSSA YANKWITT received an MFA from The City College of New York 
                                                   where she also teaches writing and literature in the English department. She conducted
                                                   poetry workshops with middle school students, and ran a Creative Writing group for 
                                                   senior citizens in Park Slope, Brooklyn for four years.
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