and we will name the island after

the summer when the gonorrhea gang

 

finally learned to stop kissing

with their mouths open, when the girls

 

who we were, with our amethyst bruises turned

violets un-bludgeoned by our blooming, are

 

lipped in metallic blue and rimmed in black gossamer

and hung with hoop earrings, our sweet

 

names cursived between the bamboo gold.

and on the island, we will be the exotics:

 

we will be young and untouched and they will crave

our fat bodies, our bulging mouths, our

 

sea salt and creole and we can say

anything and be beautiful

 

doing so, and on the island, anyone who loves us

will be full of flower and flaw

 

and we will love them black and we will kiss their palms

and we will decorate their faces with gemstones and

 

on the island, we will dance to the Whitney song

that makes us cry, we will lilt a terrible

 

dance beneath a quiet moon and we will glow like some fire-lit and

sky-bound balloon, some gorgeous and floating ornament.