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I.
He handed me an 89¢ plastic bag
of Walgreen’s vanilla-filled caramels,
a note stapled to the top:
“Happy Valantine's day
from: Reggie”
We dragged our toes,
me and the boy from the school bus,
in the thin spread of sidewalk slush
and meandered to the park and back,
my hand hidden in his palm as soft
as a baby’s.
Ten-below wind nibbled our numbing lips,
but I know he felt my kiss,
and I felt his eyes as I strut away
from my first ever date.
II.
I pressed my legs to my chest
and ducked my hooded head.
My curly-haired scientist blushed, holding
a heart full of chocolates, a red rose,
a note with a half-centimeter heart at its fold.
I handed him an alphabet book about science
with a love poem tucked between its title page
and the letter A for astronaut,
feeling stupid and not at all romantic.
Hugging him close, I felt him miss kissing me
with just atoms in between us,
my lips curved against his clavicle.
I kissed his lips, molecules to molecules;
merely children made of carbon
and whatever element gives us love.
III.
A year and a half into us,
I huddled naked against my gymnast
my fingers curled into his shoulders
his heart thudding against my cheek.
Our teeth stung, crunching the cold chocolate shell
on strawberries and shoving sushi into our smiles.
But his hand reached lower, brushing lace with rough fingers.
I grabbed his wrist. “Maybe later. Okay?”
He said chocolate-covered strawberries
are an aphrodisiac,
but by then my jeans were zipped,
our kiss was brief,
and I pulled on my pink top,
hearts trailing down my sleeves.