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The Current                                                          ( published in Alehouse )

When I was fourteen, my neighbor pulled me into the woods,
down trails to the cove, arms of blackberries scratching our chests.
He was two years older. There was no choice but to follow.
And when I tripped into a thicket of nettles,
he spread damp clay over my thighs, dulling the pain.

It seemed more dangerous back then,
running as far as we could to touch each other.

We jumped off the pier, diving deeper to kiss under salty water.
Docks floated above us—seaweed and barnacle-encrusted
pilings secured to the harbor floor.
In the distance, we could hear the engine of a speedboat
weave across the channel, barley audible
from where we floated, invisible at the surface.

As he swam behind me, the water churned from his body,
so close, the current slapping my skin.