When he took you home the first time, his entire kiss
fit into your mouth like a city after the flood, and
the two of you held your breath so long you blacked out.
They say that once a couple in Ancient Egypt became trapped
beneath the weight of rubble from a collapsed pyramid,
and the husband kept the wife alive by constantly blowing air
into her open mouth. When the rescuers found them
two days later, it looked like they’d just been kissing.
Your father is the kind of man who waits up with a shotgun
to make sure you get home before curfew; threatens any boy
who buys condoms before even asking your name
with a jail sentence and a black eye or two.
You’ve learned to start washing your own sheets
with extra detergent so your mother can’t smell
the men on them. But sometimes when you go swimming
down at the lake house in October, you hold your breath
for as long as you can stand it, until your vision turns red,
and for just a little while you can feel it again,
how his tongue felt between your teeth,
like a promise he would eventually break.