Whenever we grew tired and bored of curb¹ ball，

    of encircling the scorpions² we found under rocks

    by the mother-in-law tongue within a fiery³ circle

    of kerosene⁴ 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 crumble⁵

    the clogs⁶ with our nails， removed the undesired twigs⁷，

    pebbles⁸， and beetles⁹. 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，

    vomit¹⁰， give us the shits， or even worse， worms.

    We laughed. We ridiculed¹¹ 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.