My first kiss was inevitable. For months she leaned in
looked me right in the eye and laughed. Each time
my heart, angry lover, pounded on the locked door
of my chest. I didn’t want to care for her. Not like this.
Drunk and power mad. But she asked me to walk home
with her and her boyfriend. I stayed behind after he left.
She kept the radio low to listen for the garage door.
Her thighs went on forever like two worlds. She brushed
past and my hand felt their heat. I stood up to leave
and she did it again. Caught my eye. Pressed me against
the door. Her lips were blueberry bushes and I could taste
peanut butter on her tongue. Black Hole Sun played
for an entire lifetime.
We became kisses in the dark
corners of hallways before school. Covert trips to the library
and deliberate glances in the lunchroom. She taught me
affection in shadows and closets. Her boyfriend never knew.
I couldn’t kiss and tell for years. Craved the rush of stolen
moments before lovers returned from the bathroom or store.
I hadn’t yet learned what it meant to only ever be a secret.
Didn’t even ask why
so many of them never said my name...
Ronnie K. Stephens holds a Bachelor of Arts in Classical Studies, a Master of Arts in Creative Writing and a Master of Fine Arts in Fiction. Stephens is pursuing a PhD in English at the University of Texas at Arlington, specializing in American poetry and transgressive teaching practices for the 21st century classroom. He is a staff reviewer for The Poetry Question and the author of three books, including the illustrated poetry collection They Rewrote Themselves Legendary, which won the New England Book Prize.
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