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I'm eight and this boy keeps grabbing (they'll never know) and kissing and I don't like it (grab) I don't like it at all (kiss) I don't stop him I should be thankful—he likes me it's getting worse and suddenly we're inside this playhouse, low wooden place he asks, "Are your eyes blue?" he says, "Blonde hair, blue eyes, what more could I want?" as he takes my head in his hands and presses down the space smells of small earth and dead things the walls blur and spin over me his hands, I hate his hands his will, my trust every detail with machined clarity what was his name? —K. Pelletier |