A block away, the football stadium all
floodlit like the mothership, soaking up
the pitchy dregs of Friday night, calling all
flying insects home. He kissed me.
There was no heat in it. Only the mouth
of a small goldfish swallowing
a smaller goldfish, the tar of Texas
cooling in my bones. When he touched
down there, he expected combustion.
But I was not his dad’s red Bronco-idle,
looping I smell sex and candy here.
I was a fat wildflower unstapled
from the pop-up field. I lay very still
and let him strive against me, the grass
pricking, plasticine. I asked,
Can you hear my heart? I needed
to know it was there. Shh, he breathed.
He looked like a man building his house
on the slope of some dormant volcano.
Trust me, he said. A drumbeat, and then:
the drill teams of Travis County gave
a shallow, singular grunt on my behalf,
high-kicking their white sequin cowgirl hats,
lunging forward into the splits.
Vanilla Fields
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