Virginity
Jake Skeets
Clouds in his throat,
six months' worth.
He bodies into me
half cosmos, half coyote.
We become night
on Bread Springs
road. Shirts off,
jeans halfway
down, parked
by an abandoned
trailer. "No one
lives here,"
he whispers.
We become porch
light curtained
by moth wings,
powdered into ash.