Poetry By
Rachel Lim
Published on: 2/19/2010
The Swan
The night air like an apple remained crisp between them. She saw her father in the shadows that lined the sidewalk: the slumbering shape occupying the left side of the king-sized bed, softly indented against the moonlight. Giddy, excited, adolescent: she blew her snoring father a kiss before leaving the creaky house, before meeting the boy on the corner of Seventh and Grady. If only that luminescent feather remained between her clenched thighs: she felt it tickling as the boy's hands, soft and pudgy, felt along her hips and caressed the pale white stretch marks. She was not fat (More firmly: she was not fat) yet she had grown, erupted into an awkward girl-woman with vague breasts and a helpless smile. So she was not fat. But there was the boy, and his breath was scented softly like a cantaloupe -- he was groping and she heard his teeth clicking as the zipper slid into the rhythm-less gyre, matching the staccato tempo of her heart. This was the thing about being fourteen: if you snuck out with the stars, into a night lined with the wandering shades of fathers, there was that risk of a fatal bite of fruit, the quiet whispering of a feather. Perhaps in the corridors of memory, the knowledge might be enough.
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