AN OPEN LETTER TO JOSEPH PETER NARAS, TAKE 2

or, Today’s After-School Special Veers into Explosive Territory

Let me tell you why it never occurred to me to be afraid.

You took off your glasses, and you were perfect, eyes bluer

than any prince written, reachably gorgeous, no hiccup

of light when you stretched for me. No discussion of why

we shouldn’t tangle and pump against your locker between

periods, why I shouldn’t wrap yards of yarn around your

class ring, wear it dripped between new breasts. We snuck

around and about and pretended normal, lying to parents

about meetings and committees, entering the junior prom

through separate doors, boy, damn decorum, I loved you.

I know I did because I know some things by now. I know

that your body was a wizened and ill-advised battlefield

against mine, that your mouth was razored, that “I love you”

was a huge and unwieldy declaration, the kind of blue you

immediately unforgive. My parents weren’t yours. They

considered you the naptime-sized American dream, a rung

on the stepladder, the climb every white-capped mountain.

Just be careful, they said, while your father spat blades, said

(these are the words I’ve imagined, slapped with the wide-eye)

I’ll throw you out of my house if I hear about you seeing

that black girl again. Joe, I loved you then, and I love you

still. We are drama born of the truth tell, our tongues so stupid

and urged they continually reached the back of our throats.

Who hates me for actually knowing this? There are hundreds

of songs written about all the things you can’t do at sixteen.

There are a million songs written about what I didn’t do with you.