All summer I rode on a borrowed bike
with a borrowed helmet and a borrowed lock.
My lungs gathered luminescence
and I grew lean around them,
riding long and light.
The wind blew in off the lake
in heaving hot and cold.
Miles out, lightning stung the water,
we lay down in the dark in the storm.
Your mouth was a thundercloud,
our bodies moved like the rain.
We left the beach with sand in our socks
as the fog drew strings around the moon.
With itchy breasts and damp tangled hair
I understood how it is to be a woman:
To pass through things, to be passed through,
To take what does not belong to me
and build it
into this body.
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