the C word

in 4th grade, at the movies with Warren Findley
not quite watching Return of the Jedi and volleying,
instead, with the popcorn on his lap
and the Sour Patch kids on mine,
we did, for a brief, timidly sexual moment,
ignore the treasure of our snacks for the
blind, clumsy opportunity
to hold hands.

i remember thinking his fingers were warm,
too warm, not exactly the kind I wanted to rub my fingers against,
the warmth only pre-teen boys could have,
a damp, conspicuous warmth,
an ambitious, mismanaged warmth,
warmth that wanted too much too soon,
the prelude to a heat that could seal you off,
cut out your air supply, leave you oxygen-less.

and just as Darth Vader, unmasked, began his gasping decline,
exposed to an atmosphere he couldn't breathe in to survive,
i, too, felt my body morph into a molecule edema,
swelling past its limit, losing its crucial tether to my seat.

and because i couldn't bear to float that far away,
and because I was 10 and not used to any of this,
i had no choice but to drop the whole of Warren's overheated hands,
covering my tracks with a feigned attempt
to pluck the choice Sour Patch colors from the box,
rub my own over-buttery palms against a fresh napkin.

i realized, even in my nascent adolescence,
how any commitment could feel like
the opposite of simplicity and safety,
and how much it would take to convince me to hang on
even longer.