S W I M C O A C H
The first other male-type in my life
I can't picture
your face
or identity. I was three.
Sparks.
Sparks are what I remember.
The first time I felt for a man.
(Take me in your arms)
Not would I know until
Eleven
Years
Later
what that bubbly feeling
inside.
A deep childhood secret
tucked inside.
Locked
(a beast for thee)
(give you muscle, tone and tears)
I can't picture
your face.
But sparks,
remain.
(But I will be a beast for thee, happily. Endlessly.)
I thank thee.
Endlessly.
YOU ARE READING
Missing Home - an Anthology
PoetryHi everyone! This is a compilation of my poems from my Social Justice Poetry class from the first quarter of my freshman year here in college. I'll try my best to list the prompts at the bottom for inspiration for everyone else!
