Hands I've Held (II)

The last day of school

we sat on the flowered lawn

and listened to Nirvana covers,

the band hot in their torn flannel but

too cool to take it off.

I spun a buttercup

between my spring-pale fingers,

gold petals pulsing with the beat.

I was drunk with the heat

and the music and the flashing flower and

the last day of school so

I confessed to you

just a boy

who sat next to me sometimes

who sat next to me now

“I’m sixteen years old,” I said

“and I’ve never held a boy’s hand.”

You took the flashing flower

twined your fingers through mine

said “Now you have.”

It was a kindness, like helping

an old lady cross the street,

but of course I fell in love with you

for a little while

until I gave my hand and so much more

too much, much too soon

to someone with hands bigger and weaker

and less kind than yours.