Wax

i. I am thirteen
and thinking of boys
I want to touch me,

though my mother says
no one ever should.

ii. A door opens
into the forest, my eighth
grade classroom

where I walk the mossy
aisles with no shoes. With
the boy

who only touches
me when no one is looking.

iii. He holds my shoes
on his high shoulders,
fills them

with bruises and fire,
reserved,
he says, only for me.

Author's Note

2013