by D. Evan Peterson
(09/07/05)
It caught me unexpected--
your gray hooded sweatshirt:
CalPoly San Luis Obispo printed on the chest,
left cuff unraveling from the sleeve.
Despite months of distance,
your scent lingers:
dried sweat on the chest and lower back,
papaya from the lotion your sister makes by hand
and sent for our second Christmas.
The last time you wore it
was the big Frisbee football showdown
at your company picnic--
big because winning meant showing your coworkers
we weren't a couple of limp-wristed faggots.
I sprained my ankle for the fifth time;
to you, losing us the game.
You seethed in silence the whole ride home--
put a cold wall of bruised pride between us.
Still, that night you bandaged my sprain tenderly
after supporting and soaping me in the shower.
I could still bear standing,
but I needed your arm around my waist,
your hands massaging apricot scrub
into my back.
I needed you pressed against me,
your lips on my nape of neck
as shampoo rinsed us down the drain.
Pulling the old sweatshirt on,
with its shoulders broader than mine,
I still do.
The Poet's Companion - by Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux