MY FIRST
- 7 days ago
- 1 min read
By Alicia Kimberly
How old were we—eleven,
twelve, thirteen? Just two
children kissing behind
my garage, between
the bee-infested pear tree
and the conifer the owl
lived in, the grass covered in May
morning frost and littered
with rabbit ears, limbs, and smells
of wild things, rain,
and you,
pink-cheeked little boy.
Our eyes open, wide-green,
your white-gold curls dripped
Freckles on my nose
like a colander of cellentani
and your mouth was full of America
-colored orthodontic bands
and my long brown braids entwined
silent secrets made of winkling,
twinkling hope that I wouldn’t see you
any less often, despite the moving truck
being filled
again
in the driveway.
You’d broken my heart twice-over
by the time I realized I loved you.
I did sleep the night you kissed another girl-
child in front of our friends, in front of me,
but I tossed in my blankets.
I wet-smudged the pillow with fourteen
year old tears, had a fantastical dream
in which I threw myself over a waterfall
and drowned, and then, smiling, ghostly
watched you dress in a beautiful black suit,
watched you
carry flowers to my funeral.
It's been twenty-five years.
Our kids are the age we were then.
I can't look at the photo
in your obituary.
I wrote my first poem about you.