Like an erotic tantric chant: Lyd-i-a.
you sat right behind me in homeroom.
My straight black hair against
your white-blonde wavy locks.
Im not sure how it began; as study buddies,
roller skating, or collecting stickers.
A day like no other. After school
we took the bus to your house
& went down to the cove to fish.
We didnt have any luck.
That night we painted our nails,
watching Christine for the first time on HBO.
Your hair smelled of salt & caramel; we talked
about boys we liked, we played truth or dare,
& it got late, fast.
We decided to stay up the entire night.
Then, were framed like this in your white canopy bed.
I like it like this, your words
as you take my hand.
No, like this, & you show me
moving your fingers lightly, caressing my arm
until I learn. Oh, like this …
& our mouths open, like this
& the taste of watermelon Bonne Bell Lip Smacker …
& all the worlds doors unlock, its lockets fall away
& I cling to the stars in your hair, with the dimming flashlight
under the sheeted sky
as the house distorts dawn: Your father yelling, whore,
as your sisters car engine wouldnt turn over in time,
& the breaking of glass; bottle shards
scatter across the porch.
with you, I hold on
& nothing splinters, we
rewind the ballerina in your music box,
in every note
spinning against the darkness.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 50 | Fall/Winter 2017