We’d been playing doctor for months by then,
her huge breasts a magnet, her soft mons
a refuge from my impending adolescence. Some
nights, unable to dream, I’d touch myself like Lisa,
replay the us, hidden between twin beds in her pink,
frou frou bedroom, my aunt across the hall, making dinner,
the door half open, my fingers three thick in her daughter’s
pussy, the pin point of Lisa’s nipple stuffed in my mouth.
I’d suck. She’d moan. I’d explore. She’d explode.
It was the most powerful I’d ever be.
The first time I made cousin Lisa come
we looked into each other’s aloneness; the boys
who didn’t want us yet, the girls who shunned us
like they saw something we didn’t.
When I let myself remember:
me: on my knees, between the beds,
the feast of Lisa spread before me,
her steady rocking against my wrist
the rug burn that my knees endured
a penance, prepaid.
©Alexis Rhone Fancher, 2014, First published in Bloom