Every night I touch my lips to her face,
lower them into the cold water of the creek bed,

the water pushing around my mouth, making
my teeth ache, closest I ever get to being saved.

No one’s turn in line behind me to press the button
and drink, no shoulder tapping, sneakers

shifting, knowing if I take too long, the preacher’s
son, dressed too nicely to call him dirty,

will touch my butt before I can choke out a reply.
In the hall we wipe our mouths on the ribbed, curling

edges of our T-shirts, none of us savage, shameful creatures,
only thirsty. But in the eyeball black

reflection of the stream, my fingers stir brown swirls of silt,
disturbing things beneath the rocks, watching

for water snakes, wishing for salamanders. Will you catch me
a crawdaddy? Sound of the second a like a short e,

that little creek creature named for the one whose right it was
to take you over his knee when you were naughty, caught

at something. Boy, I told you. At home
on my knees, at the creek, bent over, branches

breaking in the trees, I am nothing for anyone
to touch. Hush, now. Go to sleep.

Image: Photo by Autumn Bradley via Unsplash.