First Kiss #1
Over the gate there is a waterfall, a water trickle,
formed by an accident of time and space.
He whispers in my ear,
pulls my hair back. My shoes
are square-heeled, too chunky
for the fence climbed over,
the uneven ground. My torso
is tipping in his grip, ankles
curving in, knees locked, so awkward,
his lips soft
I can barely breathe.
Open your mouth.
I don’t know about tongues yet,
my teeth, suddenly as awkward
as the uneven ground almost bite him,
but then don’t.
I am shaking, ecstatic,
floating above myself.
In the car, parked away from the party,
hands in his hair, fumbling with
the seat recliner, stick shift, knees
too bony, the car an obstacle course,
his big hands
in my pants
with the braids on the seams
bought with $20 of
babysitting money.
New pants for my new hips.
His hand there.
The car is cold.
My breath shallow.
He says: I’m not gonna do anything bad.
I had flirted the way I thought I should,
tossed my long hair.
Climbing back over the gate,
he liked that I was staring
at his ass,
but I wasn’t. Just waiting.
Feeling lucky.
I hadn’t corrected him.
And now.
I’m not gonna do anything bad.
My arms so long, too long
for the Sophomore dress code
are useless, long legs
just hang, mind dull,
his hand.
Music, not from the
party, breaks his
concentration, contact.
“Mom” lights up on the phone screen.
And I am my own again, out of the car.
First Kiss #1 Redux
When, at the waterfall, he whispers Romeo and Juliet,
tell him he’s full of shit.
When running hands through his hair
freezes your insides, listen.
When the beer in his hand makes you
wonder, how much older he is, ask.
When he puts his hands in your pants,
get out of the car.
Let your first kiss be with the boy who teaches you how to
whisk the eggs properly at 1 in the morning, who loves badass women
just as much as you do, and can talk about movies forever
whose family picks you up when your friend is too high to drive you home
who, even when it doesn’t work out
will say: I’d trade my life for yours.