I wanted to touch everything in Cherry
Grove: someone’s elaborate ass, tattooed
with an expressionless pair of eyes —
a small elegant woman sleeping with
a pit bull in her arms on the afternoon sand.
We all walked purposeful up to the waves,
my friends, our chests unbound
under the warm grey sky. I thought of F
who slept in their binder our first nights
together. The terrible crush of rib and lung —
the other clutch of fear at its removal.
These we place each time on our isolated scales
of desire and inhibition, ensuring we’ll stay
just as we are. But not today.
(Later Reina tells me about this same beach,
her sense that only a certain kind of girl
was wanted. I’d felt so easy in myself
I didn’t think of who was missing).