Summer of 77

Summer of 77

Adolescence furnished my body two years
after it found my brain. Chicago was fizzy
hot. I had a crush on everything risky,
above all, a fabricated boy. I know
for whom my curiosity churned

the moment I spotted him discovering
me in a pink polka-dot sundress. Shaved
legs, unapproved by mom would showoff
my grain. You came from New York
for a visit. I’d seen photos of you

but wasn't prepared to become a still-life
peering from a frame. You were dynamic
and 17; your city was urban capital; stories
were like glossy Teen Beat interviews with Leif
Garrett. Even the glass with the pop dad poured

for you made cool sweat designs. Your index
finger tip-lined my moist palm when we both
held your girlfriend's picture - güera skin,
but russet eyes and hair, something like pretty
Latina and an open mouth smile. My rival

didn’t wear braces. I looked up, you were pinning
button eyes on mine. Later, on the porch, you
asked me to marry you. I ran away like I needed
to apply an internal curfew. How could I want
to say anything but yes to my first cousin?