Heavy petting

I don’t remember the girls I groped,
fondled, put my hands on, my fingers in,
lips to, nor what tacit agreements I broke.

Intimacy has expectations. Yielding
of the private world of the body – to sight,
to touch — must count for something.

Why do I not remember their names,
their faces blurring into others.
So much drunken license, exploration, fear.

I never learned to speak woman, am only
familiar with a few words for regret
in that tongue. Just give me a name,

and I will repent the adolescent illusion of caring,
of friendship never truly felt or felt only on
the softest skin, the moist, new lips of desire.

---

Mercifully

                    Last night was different.
                    Someone fucked me awake; when I opened my eyes
                    it was over, all the need gone
                    by which I knew my life.
                        “The Dream of Mourning“ Louise Gluck

I knew he wouldn’t leave his wife.
They never do, but they are so easily
plucked – remorseful, sweet in their want.

Nine weeks – I enjoyed his idea of gift,
tokens to enter the parts he enjoyed.
I never asked him the color of my eyes.

I enjoyed stealing time from her I didn’t know
– even the mundane, mid-morning
conversations after fucking, over breakfast.

For him, I’m sure I was vacation, amusement
park ride, an exploration – uncharted flesh,
a jungle to penetrate, plant his flag.

Mercifully, they never do.

---

Worldly

Of course, I let him, too old
for the backseat fumbling
of high school boys. I had
my own room, and it was before
I knew I would prefer women,
virginity becoming an embarrassment,
and he was handsome, and kind,
and patient, and older. Did I mention
married? He was married.
I mentioned the word virgin,
and from his look I knew he’d wait
as long as it took to have me first.

Eventually, he filled the gap between
my legs, between adolescence
and adult, between the long
afternoons of a year – twice, three
times a week. He stayed over once,
we did it twice. He left with his family.
That was the price of worldly
– fair trade.

---

Biography

Douglas K Currier holds an MFA in Poetry from the University of Pittsburgh and writes poetry in English and Spanish. He has published in several journals: Main Street Rag, Comstock Review, Stone, and others.