St. Kaylee’s First Time
Daisy flower dress with a shirr bust.
Seems innocent enough, just above her knees.
Spaghetti straps and soon one must
slide down. It won’t. She works it free
while Luke looks away, signals to the waitress,
his arm sleeved in skulls, snakes coiled around his wrists.
She tucks her legs inside his, thrilled by her boldness.
St. Kaylee needs practivce on moans, grips, shifts.
They assess silently in the parking lot.
She leans against the door to his back seat: Fear.
Thighs shiver, stiffen. The searing first cut.
Jabbing knives. New, strange. She cries, but the end seems near.
A rawness she carries home. She feels inside, but her hand
comes out clean. This sinking nothing—not a part of her plan.