In honor of National Poetry Month, I’m committing poetry.
While other girls, afraid
of their own soft hands hid
behind masks, under rocks, dreamed
of boys in tight Levi’s
we met under a rotting pavilion
after roller-skating: Neither of us knew how
to start so he stretched out, nervously
into my lap, settled
into thighs, exposed earlier
only to the hands of the sun.
His chest was jasmine
and we pressed together
our breath, in my hands
a slender purple flower.
Later, the girls squealed, begged
to hear about a single snake
pressing against the temple door
but I had learned to hold hands
with the night, listen
to the lunatic song of crossing winds,
to admire purple flowers
What do you remember about your first time? Or how do you wish it went?
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