[The virgin]

the scorpion, the rattler, the blue octopus--all the bestrides named for heart-stopping creatures, we werethirteen and fear was bad or good, on the bus, jennand greg hid under a blanket and french kissed, wewere scandalized, envious--but the rattler had threeloops, the scorpion a body-lifting drop, all strungabout the smell of spun sugar sweat balloons, thechaperones trudging to an old-timey picture standto dress like thieves and chiefs, posing for somethingto bring back home--accepting rides was one thingbut those of us who went too many times didn’t yetsense the taste developing, the stomach-flip adultsomehow, gravity defied a moment--soaring abovea choppy sea of melted wax faces before plunging--and yes we measured each other by it, as jenn andgreg strolled off wing in wing for soft serve, stillpink-cheeked, suspended for a time above us all