Remember the first time you went down on me
in your mother’s house, when I knee’d you in the chin but you still kept going?
Remember how after we got tired of touching each other, we’d go outside
to lay on your trampoline after you’d swept all the sticks and thorns
off? That black polypropylene material never felt so soft and warm
between the holes of my socks. I felt the heat rising off our bodies, blending into
the world around us as we basked in the sun, a new kind of hot.
Those were the best afternoons. I loved you the most as you’d sync
your jumps with mine, letting me go higher and higher, until I hit my head
on the edge of your roof and we laid down to take another break. I asked
you if it was bleeding and you said no. I asked you to check again, and you did,
and you still said no. I can never pay you back for things like that,
or things like this, when you take the brunt of what I can’t face alone.
I know on days like today, you forget those kids on the trampoline,
sticky with sweat and sex and a little blood. I know how often I forget
them too. Do you think they’d be proud of how far we’ve made it?
Do you think they’d let us lie down with them and stare into the sun?
I don’t think they’d even notice we were there.
All my love,
Micaela Walley is a graduate from the University of South Alabama. Her work can be found in Gravel, Occulum, and ENTROPY. She currently lives in Hanover, Maryland with her best friend — Chunky, the cat.