It makes me think of learning
to swim. How at first, it's all taking in
water. I know boys who have
sex like kicking in the lake,
everything pooled,
their backs like silver fish in the cold
light—the flailing and the gasping,
the sheets slinging them underwater,
releasing the bodies to the open air in
the morning. I want to lie around the room
with his T-shirt flung over a chair, blood
warm inside the body, fireflies in the yard.
Their lights pulse. Look how desire
transforms the plainest of us. In
the dark, ripe, I could pry
the scene open by wrenching
a lever. I am still.
When I look down, I can see
all those boys at once, the light pulling apart
their bare ankles. They know what I'm thinking
about: when two people kiss, they look like fish
coming up for air. In the morning there is spit
in the sink. In the morning I split
my hair. In the morning, I watch
a minnow give birth,
the mess of pearls it leaves.
