Please Put Your Hands On My Face

i'm in second grade.

i'm playing on the swing set.

a fourth grader approaches

and starts counting backwards from one hundred

i'm panicking now

i'm trying to savor every swing (ninety-nine, ninety-eight),

forward (ninety-seven)

and back (ninety-six)

and all i can think about is how dare you take this swing from me

he's somewhere in the seventies

and he sighs

loses count

gets bored and walks away.

and it's mine again

and that moment -

like pink melted marshmallows on soft rose tongues

like beige teddy bears fresh from the dryer

like falling asleep on a mound of still-warm laundry

mine, mine, mine

- that sweet, selfish moment of ownership

of grabby hands and curled toes

of names scrawled on the inside cover of a new journal -

please put your hands on my face

carve your signature into my hips

whisper against my lips,

mine.

mine.

mine.