Poem For Unwashed Boys

Second grade and I tried to get 
  Cecilia Smith to kiss me, 

but she was a Foursquare and I 
  wasn’t anything—I just 

wanted her to kiss me. 
  My skinned knees and elbows 

wanted her to kiss me.
  My pocket holes and frayed 

laces wanted her to kiss me. 
  So did the swings, 

the monkey bars and the seesaw. 
  Miss Luna said she could do it,

and the bullies said
  they’d make her do it.

Even the kids fresh from Saigon 
  (fresh from the school of death 

and fire) wanted her to do it. 
  And Jesus did. Judas did. 

But she was a Foursquare. 
  She never did.
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