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.
