Swimming Lesson

You put your mouth to the word
—————————-and the boy appears

treading water in the deep end, saying it’s frigid,
—————————-a word you hadn’t yet

heard so it tasted, in your ears, like a cousin
—————————-to ice, to refrigerators,

you stood on the edge long enough, toes
—————————-dangling, that you guessed

it meant the water was cold as it usually was
—————————-those summer mornings

where you learned to swim with children
—————————-who were strangers to you,

children you didn’t play with after lessons,
—————————-returned to your cousins

and brothers, the familiar games you invented:
—————————-complicated, one-foot races across

the shallow end. How much have you learned
—————————-like this—freezing your face

so no one can read your ignorance, nodding
—————————-along until connection

blooms, that moonflower in the brain? When your first
—————————-boyfriend wondered if oral

was on the table, you thought of his mouth
—————————-on your nipples, thought

you already knew what it was so said maybe,
—————————-though some part of you knew

it meant something—more intimate.
—————————-You knew, in some interior cavern,

it required your mouth to do things
—————————-your hands hadn’t even tried.

Maybe. Ha! Of course, by then, you knew what
—————————–frigid meant, along with prude.

You knew what your friends might say if they knew
—————————-what little you and that boy did

in his room, how he asked if you’d touch it and even
—————————-your hands looked away.