He spends the summer of ‘18 in Italy. 

Returns with a tattoo of a cross, 

cradled in the crook of his arm. 

We argue about God until he cries.

Do you remember being 

seven years old? 

The boys in the field who called me a bitch? 

You: this little bundle 

of fury, headfirst into the fight. 

They beat the shit out of you.

You didn’t regret it.

You laughed, as we walked back home:

‘It’s just a black eye, Giorgi, 

some things are more important 

than a bruise.’

I told my mother I hated you, that night. 

And then I went to bed, 

prayed I’d know you forever.