We were sweeping his father’s driveway,
contemplating whether kissing a guy
would be anything like kissing a girl.
After we’d dated the same woman in college,
he’d offered me a summer job painting houses
so we could philosophize, determine
the true nature of the world. His face
was aquiline, wisp of goatee, full lips.
That afternoon we examined the question
of kissing from every angle while we swept:
How a woman parts her lips, slips her tongue into you.
How men might do this with each other. Pausing
next to his pile of leaves, he cocked
his head, seemed to consider the curve
of my cheek. Our eyes locked. I felt
he might take a step toward me,
but the moment passed, and, smiling,
we grasped the wooden handles again,
began to sweep the lingering questions
of desire back into the lot adjacent —
where wild weeds flowered in scandalous bloom.
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