When she left again I touched you between your legs because you
kept me. I wanted to make you feel good. It was a hot day
by shrub grass and wire fence and orange dirt. When
did her airplane leave again? We were
at the edge of the school. When she first left, you
and I had exams. We did well in them. When she flew
back in to visit, you and I were finding each other's mouths
again. My first time at her house
when the power went out--the power always goes out
at home-- I tried to find her with my arms. She did
not let me. You said yes. Some other day you were happy
about how smooth your legs were. I asked did it hurt.
Bodies were so new then. When we were born we first found
ourselves with hands before words. Hands inside legs now. You
kept me. I'm sorry. You waxed your legs
and you were happy. So you loved me. I loved you,
your mouth, your legs. I wished my face
could make you feel good. I hate my face. My hands
were a short time, and then new, and you were also new,
and afterwards, class. Why did you keep me. I think of you
as air, as sky. As earth. As ghost, as person.