by Amanda Boyle
On a hot day in spring at dusk,
one of your mom’s loaves of bread in hand you swept her off the porch to the place in the creek where we all swim.
By the light of the moon you breathe in her milky skin as she drinks up your eyes: You both give your hearts with the seal of a kiss.
This time you put your pants on the branch with her dress before you pushed her in and they dance on the warm south wind.
You try to use some old dead man’s poem and big words to tell her how she makes your blood rush and mind swoon but she grins coos, Hush. For once hold your breath and tongue.
And on your backs you float and search for shapes among the stars as you hold hands so you don't drift away. You both don’t want this to end but it will.
Her Pa will say, his skin is too dark and he is too dumb for you and your Pa will say fear in his mouth, Boys like you don’t love or think they have the chance to marry girls like her.
And that will be that.