When he speaks of how wet Cape Verdean women get, tell him that’s the rain that never hits the land. The rain that never hits the land is despair. The rain that never hits the land is refuge. The rain that never hits the land is the sea anticipating cautious pregnant plants, planning the spark of an open mouth. Spend his birthday in Paris. Do not wish him well. Sweat and cigarette smoke and blisters tearing down your dancing body on the night of his day. Unaware unsettled, put un before it all. Before the weight of those black drums on a moving ship to Cape Verde, all those American ‘goods’ in search of recovery.
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