Meg

Brigitte Winter

We talked about boys
while I wrote love poems
on your body
in yellow highlighter.
In school, we’d touch tongues
to gross kids out, we said,
but we did it also
when no one was looking,
and late at night
under blankets
we fingered the velvet folds
between our thighs,
which felt wrong enough
to lock the door,
but right enough
to leave the lights on.

My mother once told me
all little girls fall in love
with their best friends
and also ponies
until they meet a prince.

In your wedding photo
you smile stiffly
in black and white.
I light your skin
in yellow 
again
with promises
too bright to keep.