The Excitement of the Kitchen
The first real boy I kissed
was David Kay, curly haired,
in the middle of Dr. Who
on Saturday night, in the kitchen.
He was getting more Doritos for the party,
and I followed him there,
he kissed my face, many little Dorito kisses
into which I swerved my lips, impatient
in eighth grade finally to do it.
Of course I had kissed boys before.
In spin-the-bottle, the horrible fat
Craig Fox, the slurry-lipped
Adam Lewin, at the middle school playground
sitting on a picnic table with my best friend
Karen Clark. But those were not
real kisses; those were not real boys.
I revise my past like an old poem.
When David Kay visits me years later in New York,
I remember the t.v. show, the bliss,
not the fat boy or the hot playground afternoon, just
the excitement of the kitchen, and returning
to our stupid friends who did not know what
had just happened, what we
were doing in there for so long.
If you've any comments on her poems, Jessy
Randall would be pleased to hear