The first time we undressed, I thought:
your hair is as brown as your eyes is as
brown as your corduroy pants on my floor.

They are the color of sesame seeds toasted
in a skillet and the texture of fingerprints.

Touching you was like learning a new language
and forgetting all the nouns: I like when you
kiss my- I want to hold your- I wish we could be-

You thought of bridges - not metaphorically,
but of the principles of suspension, and I
was more interested in the parabolic curve
of your hand on the catenary arc of my breast.

But we were not meant to fuck, so we don't. However:

The first time we kissed, we were in the kitchen
wrapped around each other like strands of rope.

We could have stood for hours with our hands
anchored into each other's backs like salvage
ships in rough water until startled when the cat
yawned and made your calf a scratching post.

I briefly worried that we had stayed so long
contemplating the scent of each other's lips
that we had rooted ourselves to the spot.

I've been carrying this poem for 307 days,
willing it to find a home among the broken
verses of the most dangerous of boys,
the ones who leave their words etched in bone.

When we met, my first word for you was no.

01/30/2007

Posted on 01/31/2007
Copyright © 2024 Christina Gleason