You don’t know how to write what happened
without a shaking hand— how much
you didn’t want it: his hands tightening
on your hips, the cigarettes on his breath
as he moved toward you and you leaned away
and he curled closer, tongue
thrusting into your mouth, through your teeth,
trying to take you into him full body
from where you lay in the foxtails,
alone after the start-of-summer bonfire.
Distant thunder, scent of mildew,
raindrops pearling the tallgrass. The smoke
on his breath, the cicadas’ steady screaming.
Croaking frogs. That hand. Leaves dervishing
in the breeze. That pressure you didn’t want
to want, the way it felt. Truck careening
down the highway. Sway of grass.
You didn’t want it. Pulsing cricketcall.
Please, you said. I don’t want it.
You didn’t want it. Didn’t want your breath
to turn to windstorm, his cigarette lips
scalding your neck. Didn’t ask for it. That.