|Photo by Warren Wong|
While your Prom date was passed out
on a torn mattress on the floor of
your bedroom, barefoot in her black
cocktail dress, wicked matching purse
and wilted white carnation corsage, we
were tuxedoed and lip locked in
unspeakable passion - finally
released when you offered to drive me
home in your souped up, bass booming
barbaric Monte Carlo. My machismo boy. Sex
God. Rebel roughneck. Fine-as-hell
football player star. I was already your ride
or die, but then my skin became one
with the backseat. My hand prints emblazoned
on the window, your voice in my ear, panting
my name and declarations of your urban love.
You branded me like territory, left your mark
on my neck. On Monday morning,
there were rumors, faces
shocked at school with the unspoken
understanding: no one else was ever
allowed to touch me.
This poem is featured in the poetry collection Souvenir Boys.