In a Peruvian restaurant
somewhere in the Lower
East Side, I sit beside a friend,
and across from his friend,
and his friend’s boyfriend.
Swirling the strawberry margarita
around in my mouth,
hoping to taste the tequila,
I cross my feet under the table.
Uncross.
Cross.
Uncross.
I realize, as the ice cubes
melt in my water glass,
that I haven’t said a word
in an hour and I feel
scared, momentarily—
it’s one of those irrational
thoughts—
that I’ll never speak again.
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