In the picture, we are laughing,
snuggled onto a bench in a bar,
falling all over each other, a heap of joy.
Julie is as always the most solid of us—
a mischievous, wicked and grinning foundation
for whatever we pile on.
Rachel leans on Julie, her head flung back,
her dark curls ribboning down her shoulders,
eyes closed, her smile dreamy and fixed in an eternal
air of happiness. And I have nearly
collapsed on her chest, my face contorted
in laughter that is forever about to burst.
We are like puppies, squirmy and vulnerable,
our bodies unguarded and innocent,
cuddling and twisting and vining
around each other, knowing ourselves
as skin and warmth and tumble of love.
We knew nothing then of how our own bodies
would become weapons, how bursts of breath
charged with laughter would be perilous,
how dangerous our bodies would become.
Staring at the photo, I ache
for the sweet wine of connection,
the benediction of touch, the wild joy
of curling into each other, animals that we are,
staying safe by keeping each other close.
