Whenever we grew tired and bored of curb ball，

    of encircling the scorpions we found under rocks

    by the mother-in-law tongue within a fiery circle

    of kerosene and watching as they stung themselves

    to death， we ate dirt； soft， grainy， pretend chocolate

    dirt， in our fantasies sent to us by distant relatives

    in El Norte. Fango. We stood in a circle， wet the dirt

    under our bare feet， worked with our fingers to crumble

    the clogs with our nails， removed the undesired twigs，

    pebbles， and beetles. Dirt-how delicious. How filling.

    We ate our share of it back then. Beto， the youngest，

    warned us not to eat too much； it could make us sick，

    vomit， give us the shits， or even worse， worms.

    We laughed. We ridiculed him. We chanted

    after him： "？Lo que no mata， engorda！

    ？Lo que no mata， engorda！"

    What doesn't kill you makes you fat， and stronger.