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Verecundia

Despy Boutris

You don’t know        how to write        what happened
without        a shaking hand—        how much
you didn’t want it:         his hands          tightening
on your hips,         the cigarettes          on his breath
as he moved toward you        & you leaned away
& he curled         closer,          tongue
thrusting        into your mouth,         through your teeth,
trying to take you        into him          full body
from where you lay        in the foxtails,
alone         after the start-of-summer bonfire,
distant thunder,         scent        of mildew,
raindrops pearling        the tallgrass.        The smoke
on his breath,        the cicadas’        steady screaming.
Croaking frogs.        That hand.        Leaves dervishing
in the breeze.        That pressure        you didn’t want
to want,        the way it felt.        Truck careening
down the highway.        Sway of grass.
You didn’t want it.        Pulsing cricketcall.
Please,        you said.        I don’t want it.
You didn’t want it.        Didn’t want        your breath
to turn        to windstorm,        his cigarette lips
scalding        your neck.        Didn’t ask for it.         That.

 

(first published in Cream City Review)

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