by Bart Edelman
I needed to know
What it was like.
How the touch felt.
Why I’d waited so long.
Where it might lead.
When it would come again.
You seemed experienced,
Been there, done that—
As though it was no big deal.
Nothing to worry about,
If we kept the secret.
Let’s not tell a soul.
And you were gentle,
Stopping now and then
To check if I was okay,
Assuring me it was natural.
You held my hand softly—
The first day of school.
Afterwards, we lay quietly.
Still, I could see you,
Even in total darkness,
Before I fell asleep,
Dreaming of an ocean so clear,
I could drink it forever.
Weeks later, I saw you in town.
Extended an invitation to talk.
But you would have none of it.
You smiled and touched my cheek.
I watched you turn away—
The thirst caught in my throat.
Bart Edelman’s poetry collections include Crossing the Hackensack, Under Damaris’ Dress, The Alphabet of Love, The Gentle Man, The Last Mojito, The Geographer’s Wife, Whistling to Trick the Wind, and This Body Is Never at Rest: New and Selected Poems 1993 – 2023. He lives in Pasadena, California.
