Her skirt and white cotton
panties lay strewn, witness
to our careless, quotidian act
and reminder, drawing me
back in nostalgia for the
better days when we were
young, and every boy’s worst
nemesis was the clasp of
a bra: all that lay between
a frustrated hell and undiscovered
Eden. And eventually,
after clench-jawed fumbling,
her chest would spill out
and we’d laugh—all of us
boys, we’d laugh like film
villains—because it was everything
we knew to hope for,
and now no one could
ever take it away. We had
been there. We would
stifle our laughter, though,
us boys: that first perfect pair
would be a memory forever, but
in our greedy teenage hands
for just those most precious
few moments.
(2002)
