The Island

Your nervous old world father,
With his giant mustache,
Paced the lakefront
Crying out your name
And muttering to himself
In frantic Hungarian.
Supine in a leaky rowboat,
Hidden from all prying eyes,
We drifted across the lake,
Barely lifting our arms to steer.
The tips of my fingers lazily
Traced circles on your breasts,
Your blonde head rested tentatively
Against my thigh.
As we approached the island,
The first drops of a summer rain
Began to fall.
The smell of honeysuckle
Was so intense
Iit nearly made us choke.

You dared me to undress.
Released from my shorts,
My angry red member
Pointed at you,
Accusingly.
It’s cute, you said.
It has a tiny little head.
You turned your back
And I undid your bra,
But when you faced me once again,
Your arms were crossed.
No fair, I said.
As if you were unwrapping
A precious gift,
You gradually revealed
Two delicate mauve nipples,
Is this what you want, you asked.
Even at fifteen , I was sure that it was.

(originally published by The Chaffey Review)

 

Island in Lake Inari

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