In my sixteenth summer

a girl named Beatrice
taught me what to do with my desire
while lying on the concrete apron
beside the town swimming pool,
eyes turned skyward watching
boys mount high, sliced cream
across the sun, standing, arms wide
contemplating their dive, thinking only
of stride, nip, tuck, turn, while I lie
sweat sliding down my side, lips glossed,
thighs touching, belly bare, thinking-
oh, god! the curve of his arms,
the shine of his hair, the way his lips
puff out-  and then he’s off, into the air
feet clear, body arching, jackknifing down,
shear into the blue-green, rising
with a shake of his head, hand quickly
slicking back hair, then striking out
to the edge where he lifts his body
and twists to sit, leaving two
wet half moons before he grabs
up his towel and finds me and Bea.
She shields her eyes and calls, “Hi, Mike!”
and begins to banter while I watch
her style, always holding his eyes, words
sliding like oil over skin, never penetrating
beneath the surface, only hinting at
what really is on both their minds,
tossing jokes like sizzling rocks,
sitting on the edge flirting, leaning in,
schooling me in this most
heat driven style,
learning to lick with my eyes,
to put common names
to my intense desire.

Published by:
Apparatus Magazine
February 2010

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