b a r b a r a  f l e t c h e r: other poems


17th Summer

1986, and we smoke and listen
to The Cure on your parents' stereo,
picking through high school philosophy texts.
We comb through song lyrics,
part phrases from context like long lanks of hair,
braid them together to support our strengthen
our theories on war, existence, and sex.

The wine is warm and so is your hair,
curling around my fingers as I work.
The others engage in debate, in more cigarettes,
and I inhale the heavy hairspray mist
clinging close to your head, glazing my sculpture.
And in your hair hardens in my hands.

I am tired of talk, rest my sticky fingers
on your bare shoulders. Want to press
my neck against your face,
to feel the hair-stiffness bristle my cheek -
feel the long, sharp strands
pricking skin that you will never
touch with your hands, your tongue.