Lynda Tavakoli

KISSED I am fifteen, smoking in a hay barn with a boy I hardly know, the day stretched behind us, the fall of evening passing shadows through gaps in corrugated tin. It is madness, this risk too far, as I taste the smoke-spill on his mouth and wonder at the old man’s dog outside on the concrete, untroubled by the fading light. BESADA Tengo quince, fumo en un granero de heno con un chico que apenas conozco. El día se alarga detrás de nosotros, la caída de la tarde...