World Literature Today, March 1st, 2006
THE BOY TAUNTED the yali all summer long.* Any given day that summer, I would have liked being the moss covering the broken stones of the pier, just at the water's edge. Perhaps. Not that I envied the moss. Rather, because I would have been able to do what the yali could not: rub myself against the boy's taut chest, his abdomen, thighs, soles, in the few seconds when he skillfully pulled himself out of the water and, bearing his weight on his arms, swung his body in the air and landed on the stones, all in one seamless motion. Perhaps this brief contact would have been enough. Yet, moss I ca...
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