despite her Catholic saint’s name
Bernadette wouldn’t confess,
so we condemned her to climb up
the stop sign and kiss it
while the next car went by she clung
there, black hair alive
as a horse’s tail, solid body
twined around metal
we weren’t popular and we weren’t
in school and nothing
but June bugs and street lights
were there to keep us
squeezed
by the warm sweaty night
we would reveal only small truths
of crushes on nerds or how far
we would go under
the street light casting its yellow circle
of insects, fly-bys of summer
first the black robe of inquisition
then giggles, the short sleeves of confession
we hadn’t lost anything real
yet, to boys or otherwise
Did we know? after the first yes
there’s never another time you can say
“This is how it begins”
Published in Wazee (online), Spring 2008
©Beth Partin 2008. All rights reserved.
