When The Chigger Weed

Would Hold My Hand

 
Rebecca Cook

That part of me yet unclaimed the girl’s body before the baby before the boy before the first opening my fingers my hands I want that skin that soft unscarred belly those breasts not yet bursting suns I want that body back I want her I want a girl to love her because she wants to love a girl first a girl maybe always a girl body to body curve to breasts to feet neat packages of girls cocooned under quilts a bit chilly a June night on the summer porch I have never loved a woman.

 

I have never kissed never frisked never pounced upon a girl the one who should have followed me into the hardwood trees that day it’s October no need for dirty books no need for fantasy boys but only us girls two perfect fey my breasts so perky so small her handful mouthful my mouth full of her yes to the peach yes to the rose yes to her baby fuzz my baby ass we are eleven we are together the very back corner of the farm the leaves are yellow orange brown we roll in them and that is my first time, with her, with a girl because I want to love a girl.

 

It pops out up from nowhere it lays its plans she is coming Janice is coming bringing all the red-haired kids to play with my brown-haired boys we must send them outside we must occupy them with trampolines the vast backyard we must them away to play so we can taste and touch a kiss so near an almost. But I have never loved a woman I never loved a finger never a cheekbone a lip just the need to make to do an impossible thing and again, yes, Anne, come over to my house we will drink wine we will smoke cigarettes we will wax academic and poems and politics and sex we will sex we will drown you are she was another envelope cartoon balloon suggestion suggestion listen I have never loved a woman.

 

Who would why would you look at him he dangles he is hard and flat and sharp and she is I touch I rub I run my hand along the dune of her hip I slide my hand into her she is a chigger weed a laced flower such an ordinary girl we met on the bus I said come over I said spend the night I said I will kiss you there I have tongue come let’s get out of here shy of this place before the boys come please take all my brother’s G.I. Joes please butcher Barbie’s Ken there is no room for men here no boys we belong on the isle of girls our streams our mountains its soft air its spiked up dead red blue black hair dreads curls everywhere a thigh everywhere a dimple we’ve plowed as far as the eye can travel flowers have sprung red pink wine purple plum plump cunts for me a bouquet I will press them in my bible, yes, it’s been years since then they are so thin transparent ghosts I have never loved a woman.

 

I will crush you letter you my love my dairy my secret girl we walk the field behind your house the grey weather of barn November field you are such a powerful thing you pull my footsteps up the hill a patch of bitter weed a lingering cow she looks such brown eyes she has never loved a woman she has never loved you never loved me; of a sudden she lows she calls perhaps I have erred perhaps she has loved them all her herd her companions they suffer the bull they suffer the mounting indignity they suffer too, their father’s bark, they suffer too their babies little steers shipped to slaughter yes better for her no calves better for her before her bloom before the mount the quick in and out, yes, yes, she would rather love a woman.

 

Oh my. She has found me. Out. Her red hair blonde with curls perfect fairy-tipped I wish I could kiss it touch it peel it off pocket it lock it her perfect nose her eyes shut and close the slight dent of her, her Oxford bed in the pink in the rosewood in the mirror the door to the world she reads in walks in and yes laughs in tears too squints into the Renaissance into another woman’s hips thighs baby breasts quite Rubenesque I would break I would step through the scrim the water I come up dripping I lay my head atop her lap I sing her sleep her rock her what elbow what knee what I will keep what I will always what I will bring back a tiny doll what’s left when you capture her perfect perfect what I taste her toes quite polished her eyes they peer they see me clear over here watching her she’s watching me all this time she’s sweet on me yes, yes, what I will love, her, what I will spoon, her, what I will love, love her, yes her, sweetest spot yes yes her when I love a woman.

 

 About the Writer
Split Lip Magazine

Rebecca Cook’s books are a novel, CLICK (New Rivers Press 2014), and two books of poems, I Will Not Give Over (Aldrich Press, 2103), and The Terrible Baby (Dancing Girl Press, 2006). New work is forthcoming in Midway Journal, Map Literary, Menacing Hedge, Seneca Review, & theNewerYork. You can find published work online at The Georgia Review, Atticus Review, The Nervous Breakdown, theNewerYork, BlazeVox, Antioch Review, The Rumpus,  among many other journals. She blogs at GOD-LIKE POET.