THE HARD HEEL OF HER RIGHT HAND
Here’s the exact place on my chest
she first touched. Her hair, gold-brown
as my dog’s muzzle, blown across her face.
Oranges rolled under her car, the bag broken;
carrots on the road like a game of pick-up
sticks. Boy, Boy, please, could you help me,
she spun, trying to catch a loose tomato
with a crooked arm; her pink skirt flared up,
She tried to grab a ruffle, press it down,
but the wind flipped it higher. I thought,
Show me thigh, then, dashed the dozen steps
to her side, grabbed the ripped bag, lifted
the trunk lid, set it inside. That’s when she laid
her palm square on my skin, hot from the sun.
I was sweaty, tee shirt jammed in my back
pocket. She pushed me lightly, and I let her.
Maud Poole’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Boston Review, Copper Nickel, Kore Press Best of 2012, Nimrod International Journal, Podium and Stone Canoe from which she received the 2013 Bea González Prize for Poetry. She lives in New York City.