In Ireland, the boys Nina Parmenter

Nina Parmenter

In Ireland, The Boys

gave us the chat in Casey’s played rap in unkempt caravans, lounged in chefs’ trousers after their shifts telling stories, safe in a nest of our knitwear.

After dark, we scaled cliffs together like baby lizards, egged each other to strip and dip. They held our skins and we grew into them.

In England, the boys visited. But in the chafe of our terraced houses, nothing seemed to fit.