you make me feel acolhida 

hugging my knees tightly 

as I cry touched by another’s love 

acolhida. Colhida like a ripe fruit 

before it meets the softened core.

You speak the language of my childhood; 

of the sweet smell of rotting mangoes.

I would trade in all their flesh 

draw juice from all their naked pits

feed you my suspiros soltos

for a lifetime 


To quench your thirst, my love.