Rachel

17

I don’t know whether to call this boy-man
a boy or a man
because a man means he should know better
and a boy means his mother should take the blame.

I don’t know which of us
tasted like weed
it felt like the boy-man, but retrospectively
I think it was my own tongue
coming back to me

I wish I were a chameleon
I mean about the fruit-roll-up tongue
unraveling to catch a fly
like throwing the scroll of a holy book
down the stairs,
I mean I wish could make my skin
the same color as
walking home from a party on Riverside
after curfew.

I am ashamed of the strangest things:
body odor, lace underwear,
saying too little, crying in public,
being naked,
my tongue.

I don’t want to call this boy-man
anything except the boy-man
who threw me against a wall and made out with me;

I bet he is a nice boy-man who loves his sister
I bet he is not thinking about her
and has had two drinks too many
I understand what it is like

not to touch somebody for a very long time
to creep into your room
and watch cheap suburban girls
eat each other out
on your computer screen
thinking all the while
about your ex-boyfriend
whispering, I love you,
and then remembering that it is in the past;
I understand this, boy-man,

that you feel it has been forever
since you were last thrown
against a wall, and I bet
you miss my lips until
I’m trying to push you
off with them—
did you know the tongue
is the strongest muscle in the body
relative to its size? I’m dwelling
on tongues, I know,
because I can’t get yours
out of my mouth,
and I have bruises to show it
greyish purple all up
my arms, I told my mother
I fell of my bike
since I know I would be punishe
d for being thrown against a wall, boy-man.
I’d never be allowed out at night again,
to sit on somebody’s fire escape
with somebody I have loved
for a long time,
watching the stars and feeling like
the world is a very good place

(and yes we were high
out of our minds),

when you pin me there
in your strong muscles,
boy-man, pushed up hard against me
one of your palms
on my quivering neck, I go
limp against your mouth
like undoing drawstring pants

I don’t want to fight
with anybody, boy-man.

Walking away is harder
than writing a poem about walking away,

and I have imagined this scene
so many times, the stranger
on Riverside, after curfew,
that I am no longer scared of it

boy-man:
am I supposed to fight you off now?
I am not a lion.
I am 17 year old girl,
self-righteous and bossy

and feeling obligated to mention
my halter-top
even though there is nothing inherently erotic
about shoulders,

except sometimes, boy-man
I see my boyfriend’s shoulders
all silhouetted in the moonlight window

and I want him to grab me
and throw me against a wall
and leave bruises,

he touches now, a gentle
forefinger on my
forearm, asking where they came from.
I cannot bear to tell him
about you, boy-man,

the way you will not go home
to tell your sister about me.