portrait of venice with a side of pasta

we split a package of gum on the sun deck. it has never been this easy to get to the shore. if the city sinks, at least our purses are new and italian. we knew leather could tote a little water damage. i pretend the limone gelato is vegan. today, we don’t mind a little diarrhea. after all, the bowels would be italian! we have been there long enough for our digested food to be american no longer. on the water, a tour guide talks about the boats but not who built them. i sneak out of the tour line to share a seat on the rocks with a dominican boy who is quiet, but knows who built them too. back on board, he and i have the audacity to share legroom. at home in america, my auntie is afraid of water. she cooks pasta in her own fear, runs a bath with her own history. my uncle, her husband, is dating a new woman who is too young to know why it isn’t okay for me to like water this much. even in italy, where mosquito bites are itchy kisses, and a brown boy has never looked so good in the sun. in a wornout castle, we make jokes about european efficiency, how a train can outrun anything it needs to forget. and my auntie is still stirring.