VERECUNDIA

​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.