I met him the summer I turned thirteen—
shipwrecked Odysseus,
naked, caked in brine, embarrassed
by a sunditzed maiden’s presence.
Watching him wash and wrap in fleece,
wipe grit from his golden flask.
I would have bathed him in olive oil
myself if he had asked.
I lay across chenille to read
while my sisters sizzled outside.
my dripping one-piece on the floor,
the knotty pine all eyes.
A girl who fell in love with a stream
got bedded under a wave.
My mother’s vacuum nosed my door
and thumped as if to say
she knew what was going in there,
this was her final warning.
My night for dishes was every night,
and then I read till morning.
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