At the Pond Apple Slew, we lay beneath a film of sweat,
overarching palmetto fronds, my hoodie stretched like a picnic blanket
over crabgrass that linked its fingers around our bodies,
curved to one another, my bronze arms, my hands beneath the hem
of your shirt, over your parachute pants, stitched together
with fishing wire. I learned the muscle of your tongue
that day, how it could coax my lips open,
as I inhaled the scent of beeswax from your dreadlocks,
my own pink hair flaming and fanned around us,
like a sign of hazard. I remember how immaculate we seemed,
and at seventeen, I never thought of your wife,
even the day you handed me your phone
to speak to her, your eyes dancing like the hornets
hanging in the air, as she thanked me for tutoring you.
Suddenly, I really saw you, as you took a drag from a Newport,
the muscles of your face contorting around the angles
of your cheekbones, while you choked on a laugh,
your breasts outlined in sweat on your white T shirt.
You grabbed my wrist and ended the call,
leaned towards me for a kiss, your thin lips
still tense with a grin. I thought of her
at your home, in your bed, as I lay back down with you,
your fingers pushing the wire of my bra to my throat,
and I could have said no, but I accepted my share
of you, your thigh splitting my legs, my hand
floating to your neck, light as an insect at your earlobe,
touching down upon you only for a moment.
Amanda Leal is a 28 year old poet from Lake Worth, FL. Her work has been featured or is forthcoming in magazines such as White Wall Review, Sky Island Journal, Levee Magazine, West Trade Review, and others.