—TWO BOYS, ONE TO KISS YOUR NECK, AND ONE TO BRING YOUR BREAKFAST, GETCHA OUT OF BED

 

Beth

 

We were stoned and late for the Kiss concert that night, but “Beth” was playing in the El Camino, on full blast, when I placed the head of a dandelion in your palm, which smeared golden in your sweat like egg yolk, highlighting creases I’d never noticed. 

You said, “Oh, gosh, you gave me a brand-new sun, not a daughter,” as if quoting Proust, but I was awkward, gangly, and didn’t know how to reply, so I just kissed your chipped fingertips instead, sucked on your dirty nails until they turned white. 

We never made it there that night. We never had a son. But even now, I still think about that exit we missed, the way your fingers tasted in my mouth, both filthy and delicious.