It was the most intimate way
we’d ever touched: his belly
reddened by the pulp of berries
I picked on our hike with my parents’
little dog in tow.
The curved autumn moon,
already visible in the afternoon,
made him feel self-conscious.
He was cold, hard,
ready to return to the car.
But I stopped and told him
I felt like a giraffe, tall and awkward
and all alone. His eyes never strayed,
even when I rubbed the juice hard
into his course, black hair, searching.
He wanted to kiss me, but he never did.
And when I hear his name,
I still feel stickiness on my hands.