I was thirteen, and there was a boy’s
mouth where my legs met. My heart beat

like a bird caught in a bag, let’s say
for her plumage. I could smell his want,

thirteen and there was a boy, and I became
something salt and sweet

where my legs met. My heart like a bird
swelled and split

the clear air with its song. I was the must,
the first press wine,

thirteen, and only this boy and the needles
under the pines,

that cedar bed, fragrant and ancient as dust
and where my legs met-thirst-

a boy, my heart like a bright, caught bird.

Rebecca Foust