Garbage Love

Before Brokeback Mountain,
we had been breaking our backbones
in the hill of trash;
you dug for iron scraps,
while I collected 
every shape of plastic;
you held onto my ribcage, 
and I leaned on wood eaten by termites.

We shared chicken leftovers
still whole inside latched styrofoam boxes;
you slurped off
the ketchup on my jaw;
I finished clean
the thigh you dangled;
we did not mind the noise
of rats that witnessed our grimed secret.

When we found unsold fruits,
you pulled them apart as swift as licking;
I picked the seeds 
so you would not choke;
you quickly caught
the drips for my tongue;
my lips on yours tasted sweeter
when papayas were soft in our scoops.

But that was before the film
when the length between us was a breath
of faint diphthongs;
I left the hill to forget all
odors that provoked,
the black smog waking us
and the white clouds that lulled 
our aches we massaged under the stars.

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