Was how his voice sounded as he answered the phone, holding the lower
receiver of the plastic conch up to his lips like a fountain tip lick.
“Jello?” Served as the inquiry. As the salutation. As the formality.
After sex there was always cigarettes and after cigarettes there was always coffee and after coffee there was somehow always jello.
“Jello?” As if the rubbery starch of his lips were served on tin lunchbox platters to grade school princesses for desert—
When I was seven I looked the word hymen up in the dictionary, confused
wanting to know the dry wall palisades of my inner thighs
Wanting to know the part of my body, the zip code of my loins, realizing only
Later that Eve still is not aware of the kind of fruit she tasted on a dare—
“Jello?”
My virginity slipped down past the caps of my knees like a homecoming shadow, bannered in the aqautic hallway still of Woodtucket High; a bonfire autumnal breeze set in after the dance we skirted around
Home Depots parking lot shuffling a bottle of Southern Comfort between us like
An organ pipe, trying not to let our peers conceive the paucity of our swigs.
His fingertips were a nest that fell from a branch I was unaware of
His body hitting my body like an anvil, like a scrape,
The grunts and flaps and afterwards he looked at me; the damp moist jam, the sound of
Cars with alarm systems shrilled—two to be exact—at the same exact moment,
They went off, an annoying din, as if my high school beau had swung the handle on
A slot machine instead and after all these years I still have let the
The sound of tokens clattering through my body, my eyes, a dizzy blur of cherries, of
Promises of lies.
receiver of the plastic conch up to his lips like a fountain tip lick.
“Jello?” Served as the inquiry. As the salutation. As the formality.
After sex there was always cigarettes and after cigarettes there was always coffee and after coffee there was somehow always jello.
“Jello?” As if the rubbery starch of his lips were served on tin lunchbox platters to grade school princesses for desert—
When I was seven I looked the word hymen up in the dictionary, confused
wanting to know the dry wall palisades of my inner thighs
Wanting to know the part of my body, the zip code of my loins, realizing only
Later that Eve still is not aware of the kind of fruit she tasted on a dare—
“Jello?”
My virginity slipped down past the caps of my knees like a homecoming shadow, bannered in the aqautic hallway still of Woodtucket High; a bonfire autumnal breeze set in after the dance we skirted around
Home Depots parking lot shuffling a bottle of Southern Comfort between us like
An organ pipe, trying not to let our peers conceive the paucity of our swigs.
His fingertips were a nest that fell from a branch I was unaware of
His body hitting my body like an anvil, like a scrape,
The grunts and flaps and afterwards he looked at me; the damp moist jam, the sound of
Cars with alarm systems shrilled—two to be exact—at the same exact moment,
They went off, an annoying din, as if my high school beau had swung the handle on
A slot machine instead and after all these years I still have let the
The sound of tokens clattering through my body, my eyes, a dizzy blur of cherries, of
Promises of lies.
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