Drag

In the babysitter’s hot closet, or the limbs of a tree fort--
where we tried not to get caught in clutching pairs,
pubic bones ringing shaky little chimes of pleasure--
someone had to be the boy, so it was me, I let
the maleness take me like a sparkling spirit,
scratch my voice, push my tongue, my fingers, & be on top.
Dress hems brushed my eyelids, empty shoes
scraped my bare legs while I loved those warm
shivering girls, their sighs
they’d heard their mothers make.
My boy self wished the last bloom,
not the finger, but the flesh of folds
turned inside out,
unsure why it mattered
what was inside the hot gripping.
I was after their salt, those sounds,
& when one of the girls said, You be the girl,
I went limp on the sharp shoes,
unsure what a girl would want,
my voice trilling, my body empty
of will & of devils.
Kissed & poked, I lay there
until another said, Nevermind, be the boy,
& I rose up out of the pile of shoes,
pulled up my shorts
& got on top.


*Poem first appeared in The Seattle Review