We slip off into the night to slip out of our clothes,
remove our skins for the neighborhood eyes
flying through the park, her pale moon thighs,
a blur of elbows and ankles,
lip gloss and bangles, rolling in the grass.
And he was her first but would be my eighth,
filling me in the dark with his broken collarbone
his lilting lyrics and poised promises.
Her mom would sleep til the sun rose.
Then he slows and I realize
I lost my earring, my favorite earring,
I comfort myself in that all possessions are temporary and then
he finds it wedged in the green and places it in my hand,
my sweaty shaking hand.
I laugh at the thought of keeping something that I’ve already let go of
Just like you.
And just like you,
I fling it from me, silver streaking through the trees
my knees are blade-stained and bare.
I left it there
just like I left you
tearing through the night like sisters, like a Tori Amos song.
All along you were the light that lead me back home
and now we’ve grown into proper women.
Still a blur of elbows and ankles, still filled with lyrics and promises.