The First Time
The first time is like ballroom dancing with two left feet.
Naked twister, his right hand on my bra strap,
his lips surpasses my pulsating heart and lands
on my sweetened fruits, his left hand on my trembling thigh.
Hip on hip. Knocked knees. Awkward.
Shouldn’t Maxwell or Marvin Gaye be serenading in the background?
And why is the 5 o’clock news on?
I knew little and what I knew
I did not believe-
They had lied to me so many times,
So I just took it as it came,
Surrendering. Walls crashing stubbornly like Berlin-
when did it become November 1989?
My absentee father tried to explain-
Bees flee.
Birds are stuck with hatchlings with feathers like their fathers.
My mother said to
choose your first time wisely, like
picking your first dandelion and making a wish-
imagining and misperceiving coincidence,
the little floaty puffs are parachutes for the seeds that don’t come back.
Deflowered.
Copyright © Pippi B. | Year Posted 2015
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