Inertia

eyes the green of May skies

—my first love in a desert typhoon,

Catholic boyhood dressed in cutoffs

& a wrinkled T-shirt [when we kissed

his tongue struck me like an alligator

out of place]

—I can’t give him a name, isn’t he

all of them, a Michael Bublé ballad

disguised by tousled hair & a belly

full of fur, or a schoolbus ride

where we refuse to let go

—physics was our game, unclipped

fingernails descending my back

as we summed forces unknowable

to peers, the teacher glaring at us,

this tactile language we created

—[should I say he’s married now:

the girl across the classroom always

looking back, her toothy smile, I think

she got a B & all I am is precocious,

a fire lit early]

—it was a placid Nevada day

when we destructed, because of me,

the stubble on my chin, our time

simply an assay for human sexuality,

his results conclusive

—& every summer a sliver of my heart

stings me, Tahoe’s mirrorball below,

emerald waters reflecting the gaze

I’ll never lose [here, the sky collapses

into dust]