One night I was sixteen.
I found a boy to take me back to his hotel,
so I could bite hard
the dry unripe rind of sex.

But then it was dawn
in a foreign country.
I stood before the ticket taker
old enough to be my mother.

I didn't know the word,
so I had to pantomime the whole thing—
a broken strap, a train full of strangers,
breasts like mangos

I needed to keep from unpeeling.
Maybe she had a daughter my age.
Maybe you are allowed
to ask for what you need.