he's rolling up my sleeve.
the nonchalance of it parental.
i bring my forearm into myself
after he bares the crook of my elbow.
i'm trying to hide my stick and poke from him
because i'm embarrassed of everything about eighteen,
everything before it.
like how i said i wasn't a virgin and i was
and i didn't know how to go down for shit
and i threw up in my mouth that time.
but whatever, right? wisdom and stuff,
fine wine. great cheese.
he takes my arm again, turns it towards him
traces the crooked tattoo that never quite healed itself.
he doesn't say anything and i like that.
doesn't ask what it means or why.
he just touches it. as though to remember it later.
i sigh, and then, as though deterred by heavy breathing
he gives my limbs back to me, stands up
and adjusts his balls, sits back down again.
and right then for some reason, i can't remember
what a clavicle is or the name of the guy
who showed me his penis behind the showers at day camp.
i do remember that it smelled like feet there,
oatmeal cookies.
but when i look at him, he's just sort of blinking real slow,
so i put my head against him, not expecting anything.
we sit like that for a real long time,
after a while he puts his hand on my knee,
gives it a good squeeze every so often.

01/24/2008

Posted on 01/24/2008
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