At the neighborhood pool,
we perform barefoot baptisms,
trace bug-bite constellations,
become our own radios on quiet suburban streets.
Weaving the way back to splintered decks
and sticky syrup puddles,
we starfish like playing cards on uncut grass.
Hands become heavy on hips that
spill from high-cut bottoms.
You squeeze tiger-stripe thighs and slide
along the underside of my knees,
slick with sweat and yielding.
I kiss you, our pink noses press together,
bodies curve like two question marks:
hesitant, hovering.
A tangle of tightened muscles, legs
compete for crawl space until they tire.
I wait for your breathing to steady
before I slip away.
The Bucketlister 