He had a brick,
That’s what he called it anyway
And a bag of blue and pink floss,
Nostalgia and childhood memories,
Suffocating in cheap poly.
The field was so very green
And damp.
Blades grew lovingly between my toes.
The sky one perfect blue
And nothing else.
He had a knife,
But it was small,
That was like him.
He slit the paper wrapping,
Then carefully laid out his tiny explosive prizes,
All over the ground around us.
I was on my back
He let me touch him,
The floss,
It was sticky and warm and soft.
Then hot, everything got hot.
And my fingers,
Became useful.
I didn’t understand everything,
He pretended to,
I liked that he did.
I don’t remember certain things.
The lighter,
My eyes were closed,
Feeling.
I do remember the jumping bugs,
A thousand colourful Chinese orgasms,
Dancing, singing, snapping with our rhythm.
They burnt through their powder,
So did we.