With Red Thread

It was Sam who
That summer before fourth grade
Danced with me
At the church camp dance
And asked me to walk
Outside with him

"It's hot," he said
"Let's go look at the stars"
And I, who did not yet
Understand the sweet cramping
That tendrilled deep in my gut when
Sam held my hand, said yes
We stood there a long time
Me looking out at the stars
Because that is what
We were there to do

The night was the color
Of Wisconsin violets, crushed
And Sam, still holding
My hand murmured low, "Oh
Look over there"
And, when I turned
My feathered head, he leaned
In quick and close
And kissed my astonished lips

Even thirty-five years later
I am still somewhat
Unprepared as I write
What happened next
How he sprinted away
A gleesome hart
How I stood there, still
My lips apart, the soft
Hands of the night
Still holding the most tender
Parts of me as they spilled
Like fruit no one knew
Was yet ripe, and the sharp
Stitch of longing so new to me
Sewed itself into my breath
And never left