Breadcrumb #607
CATHERINE CAMILLERI
When asked about my first time, I think about
Wheat fields on my windowsill—
a golden sliver sprouting through
my plush red velvet curtains.
A slick lick of sweat up my spine,
accompanied by an
uncomfortable explosion of heat.
It crawls inside the ring of my bellybutton,
proposing itself on crooked knees
but I am the one folded in half.
Most girls talk about their first time
with bottled anticipation: to be bent back
by the weight of some young boy
onto his childhood bed—
the back of his car—
the sea-green couch his parents bought
during their first year of marriage,
but now they live in separate houses.
Most girls act as if they had
unhinged some long protected secret.
As if they suddenly knew how to
fuck with freedom and laugh, untouched,
at catcalls (water off a duck).
But I am a slow learner and
don’t know how to swim.
When asked about my first time,
I think about wheat fields on my windowsill—