Birthday Poem
You kissed me in the snowstorm at dusk
with The Office playing in the background;

The light, blue hue,
quietly touched, the snow, chaotic,

covered everything, and your lips

gently, taking me

into the palms of your hands, enough
room to keep me still in such a confined space.

You kissed me, and the gloam of the television
became a moon over my shoulder;

the dusting of freckles on my shoulders,
golden neon technicolor.

I remember how it felt to hold your penis
in my hand, feel the scrape of your forehead

against my collarbone—spent, agony, a loud shiver,
breathless, ancle, scared palm, moans,

poems and lyrics out into the darkening

corners of a childhood bedroom, my socks rolled
high up to my knees, and leggings and messy bun, and

beanies, and stubble, and the snow, always
in my mind, that Wedgewood blue twilight,

the flutter of someone else's comedy, the calamity
of my giggle, still girlish even now

that my breasts are sagging. I remember the way your eyes closed,
then opened,

gulping each other in, drunk on anticipation of
what might happen next.