The parking lot was empty when you pulled
your sleek black Bonneville underneath a dirty street lamp
that wasn’t on
even though the sky was metallic gray
with stabs of silver lightening.
It was your dad’s car, handed down
to you; you handed down to me
unscented Jergens lotion
you told me to put on you.
I’d told my mom we were going to the Y
despite the hail that was now making
sounds like forks being pressed into
the roof of your car.
We never saw the inside of the Y that day
but I memorized the way a single curl
dropped onto your forehead as you bent to
offer me your mouth with soft tongue
touching my roof, expanding inside.
I thought about youth group meetings,
every Sunday evening, when you would sit
next to me but not look at me, not touch me.
Now you touch me where no one has
and I wonder what God’s thinking now.