beside the lake, you asked me to rub sunscreen
on your hard-to-reach places. this was
foreign territory. West Virginia. two weeks
without parents or church service. this meaning
all of you, in a Target bikini,
strawberry popsicle juice staining your lower lip.
you played lacrosse in a sports bra & spandex,
sang loudest during bonfire & knew it.
there were bumps on your shoulder blades
where i squeezed & spread the lotion,
bursting where mosquitos fought
for tastes of you. you & i & every creature
on that campground famished in the
Blue Ridge mountains. she’s bisexual,
Carroll told me in the shower house
one night. you know what that means,
don’t you? how your eyes must be glued
to our bunk bed-sized bodies so
we clutched our towels tighter to our
dandelion chests. but what did it mean
if i wanted you to stare. longer than
it takes to fall asleep under
twin sheets in July. your palms
releasing lighting bugs to
each phase of the moon. your tongue
spitting watermelon seeds through the
volleyball net. so in this version,
there is no boyfriend you made plans
to move in with after graduation,
only baby hairs on the back of your neck.
in this version, i ask where else i can
lather lotion & there is no oil
or guilt on my tiny timid hands.
in this version, i sneak to your cabin
after lights-out & climb each
metal rung barefoot. in this version,
your body matches mine down to
its heartbeat, & i am gone through
your screen door by morning.
