cherry pies and first times

the first time i saw a boy without his clothes on
my elbows dug into the pews afront me, my hands clasped in prayer
i bent my neck up as far as my tendons would allow
before the congregation would hear their wretched tear
until my sight met him lying there up on the cross
his golden eyes watching me gaze at his bronze figure

the last time i saw a boy without his clothes on
my hands were clasping at the fabric of my bed sheets
as he kissed down from my neck to my thighs
he tasted of menthol zyns and good old-fashioned cherry pie
and in between my whispers of i’ve never done this before
his black, leather belt met my white, linen dress on the floor

i happened to be wearing a white dress each time
i met him at midnight and led him up the stairwell
right before his black, leather belts would meet my floor
and i wonder if some spirit in my closet could tell
i was about to do something so divinely dirty
i might as well be dressed as an archangel

as his tongue nestled itself in and out and around
i tried to remember all the other boys
who had nestled their tongues in and out and around
but my mouth could only recall the taste of liquor
and my mind could only make out fuzzy clouds of brown
of all the boys i had seen without their clothes on
that the next morning, i could make out in a crowd
the list was far and few between

it is not often that i write about my boys
i much prefer to erase them as quickly as i can
to forget how a boy looks without his clothes on
chugging my ‘eternal sunshine of the spotless mind’ in a beer can
but he lives on in the stories i will tell my daughter
about when a girl growing into a woman meets a boy becoming a man

he will brag to his friends about the head he received
while you sulk to yours about the innocence you grieve
and i will become a notch on that same black, leather belt
one of the many bodies his tongue has felt
as he becomes material for new rhymes
nestled in my tales of cherry pies and first times.

Copyright © 2025 Anita Marie Julca