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The first time we made love
was in an empty high school gymnasium

late at night. When I finally saw all of you
in the moonbeams rippling through the grubby

windows behind us—tanned skin, heart-shaped mole,
scars like miniature waxen railroad tracks

crossing your knees—I remember thinking
it’s happening, it’s finally happening, though at the time

I thought it just meant losing my virginity.
We were together for seven months, each lonely

night spent on the phone listening
to each others day echo through the crackling static

vacuum of phone towers stretched 990 miles
between shady hollers and shifting dunes,

so when you came to visit after Christmas
I couldn’t wait to put our words to rest and rely

on the body’s archaic language to tell you
how I felt. Once you were here, though, I realized

that I didn’t want my family and friends to meet you—
I wanted them to meet my girlfriend. You were a topic

of conversation, a doll made of glass in my hands,
something I flaunted, like you were a trembling bunny

I had caught in the woods and brought home to present
to my parents before letting it go at the edge of the lawn.

Do you remember when we fucked for an hour and a half
on my bathroom floor? I faked it twice. It may seem

impossible, but my knees were tired of the tiles
and my parents were sleeping soundly

in the next room. By then, I knew you weren’t
the naked girl I found in that dirty high school gym,

I knew that the moment we shared on the cold
metal bleachers was just that—a moment, frozen in time,

a dusty moonbeam reverie I had created
for myself because I was tired of being lonely.

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