Bea Bolongaita
ECON MAJOR TRIES TO FUCK MY BOYFRIEND
Before he loved me, before I was brave enough
to give my desire a name,
I’d watch his Adam’s apple bob against his neck
as if it were a Red Delicious floating in the water.
I remember the first time he touched me:
The cardigan slipping from my shoulders.
The bench barely hidden by a bush.
Two days removed from my first kiss:
I tell him to choke me. How else will I learn
the weight of his palms, my neck
the willing handle of a watering can, the sugary duck
hanging at the back of a Chinese grocery store?
I have to know: Were you looking at his hands?
I ache in the tradition of every person
who came before me: When I’m drunk,
the heart between my legs
begins to beat.