We were 10-year-old girls
huddled around the book
that Stacia’s mother had given to her,
and we read in chorus the names of the body parts,
penis, vagina, labia, testicles,
the words tasted like foreign food on our tongues—
so strange they made us giggle—
and there was something else,
a pull in my belly, a breathlessness
inside my voice
as I read out loud for the others
all about how the act was done.
There was nothing in the book
about love or even the violet crush
of lust. Just the facts about
how the bodies fit and the science
of what might happen then
when the sperm fertilized the egg.
The authors did not mention
how diamonds might explode
through your toes, did not mention
gasping or humming or moans—
no, mostly we wondered why
anyone would ever want
to do what they showed
on page 29, that page we
couldn’t quite stop
our hands from returning to
so we could stare
at those bodies
so impossibly joined
again, again.