Cherry Lipstick
I was her third boy, she was my first,
And in the church our kisses flared,
Towered high as angels, and warmed
The vault. In the pews, we blundered
Over each other. Me clumsy with a tug
On her tie and vest and skirt as I held
Her closer, diving into mouth and mouth
Of her fevered blood while she grabbed
The sharp, starchy creases of my pants.
Our black shoes squeaked, her lipstick
Poured cherry on my tongue—and spread.
I was her third boy, she was my first kiss,
And God was the imprint of the cushion
On her cheek that lingered in force
And then, fearing holiness, up and fled
The church to hear and see the first buds
Of spring ache into their grotesquerie.