At First She Don't Succeed

I.                   Try

            That night, she 17. She ready. She into him. She love him. He milky white, skinny and gentle, the boy, he feel good. Oh, do the girl have it right, have it tight, have it rough. She feel white tonight. Milk on milk, and cute red pimples – they 17.

            It’s hard enough to sneak him up to she room, dark on a Saturday night, Mama in her bed, Saturday night’s fire only a mile from where she stand on the stairs. Way down there: the howls and the thrills of the girls and the boys. He climb up behind, loving she sweetly. In she room he love she like the moon. Clothes on the floor, not from tonight but from the night before. She safe. She with love – she at home.

            Past midnight in a trundle bed, snow white sticking to the witch window, leaving the room cold but for they bodies. Suddenly she feel she black hair between she limbs. “You don’t have to shave your legs,” he say. She love him, him because he love she curls. She exotic. She like hot whiskey. She a noble savage in Vermont. She a savage in the city.  

            “Ready?”

            In winter she white on his white skin. He move slow. She tight, and he know.

            Woman give birth. Woman bleed month to month. No man ever compare sex with getting kicked in the nuts. They stop and she cry and he stroke she hair, say “it’s alright. I love you.” She too tight.

II.                Try again

            This night she 18, again fire smoking and friends’ cigarettes. Summertime and they dance, she squeal sharply, every beer, they high school graduates! He say he wouldn’t have made it, but for she. Blue Spruce and Silver Birch celebrate with every gust, blue night at the fire pit. In June she hot, she wear no shoes – she in Vermont.

            Like every night, they first to go to bed. Last to sleep. She set up the tent after six or seven beers when it began to rain. She stole a blanket, a rain cover, a tarp, she brought sheep skin from the house. She ran around the tent in a thorn bush, she all scraped up in she legs. Inside she hear the rain but they stay dry, so dry and no air break through she layers. He say “I love you,” he say he know he get slapped if he ask to marry she. She laugh. She more afraid of getting married or of getting bleached? He blond hair sticking to his forehead, he big darling nose like a hook in she heart, he crooked teeth, he pale, pale skin.

            She browner than the winter. She drunk in the summer. She feel good. She got a tattoo. She know pain. He gentle, he slow. She tight and he know.

            “Baby, we did it!”

            But it don’t even last a minute.

III.             Try, Try Again

            They break it all up for college, but they a Christmas present. She come home from Chicago, he take the bus from Kentucky. She invite him to she house, with she girlfriends. They all take vodka shots in the living room, they in college now. She girlfriend read her poetry, make she girlfriends cry. He wait upstairs.

            Night black as winter because they in the North Pole; the NEK; the Northeast Kingdom. They see themselves in she sliding glass doors. She sliced in half by the white snow pile. But she know she not black from the waist up. She just looking at the nighttime. Yellow sun about to come up.

            She bring the bottle upstairs and he smile at she, melt away she worries and smile at he love. She close the door and he grab she waist, she laugh, she drink up. She have nothing to fear. She yella’, she free, he pink and he love she.

            Past midnight in a trundle bed, snow white sticking to the witch window, but the room hot for they bodies. She kick the bottle to the floor, vodka in the carpet never smell so good. She trying to be proud of she curls, she hair, she light skin. But Chicago only make she wish she a little more mocha... He gain muscle in Kentucky, he lift she up and he hold she down. She feel safe, she feel open, she know pain without him. She love pain with him.

            She lie down giggling, she ask for a cigar. He hold out his hand, and she slap him five. They warm bodies touching, and she sigh. They relax in she lumpy bed, they home, skin soft like only lovers grow. For a moment she envision a snow white child, chill from the outside creep up she legs. Through the window shines she friend the yellow sun. She say, “I’m happy.” But she cold, and she know.