Bruising Boy

I.

There wasn’t much to say

in the nurse’s office, when

pale jeans and a discolored crotch

explained on my behalf,

saving us both from

further embarrassment.

Before sending me back to P.E.,

the nurse gave me three maxi-pads

wrapped in a Persian blue, and

an apologetic smile to compress

some of the bruising.

“Just so you’re prepared.”

I came in at floral-patterned

panties and lez-be-honest

accusation. Locker room talk.

Numb and boyish, I hid inside

my sweater, shoved those pads

in my messenger bag.

II.

We hiked to the pond

after school to sit. I made

note of her white hair, how it

speckled under the trees.

She planned to grow it out

and chase Ivy League.

I worried we’d only talk, then,

when she kissed and flushed.

Her shirt reeked of the boys’

locker room she best avoided.

“Boys,” she had told me,

“are even less forgiving.”

Lying there with her, bruised

by burden from this closet affair,

was unseemly right to me.

I wondered if our friends caught on.

She laughed, shaking her head.

“What would there be to say?”

III.

I collapsed during boys vs. girls

dodgeball when a boy struck me

hard in the stomach. I wanted him

to know he didn’t really win, because

I was on his team, but he ogled

at my breasts. Losing was better.

There wasn’t much to say

in the nurse’s office, when

bruised knees and a punched gut

got me there. The nurse insisted

I lie down with an ice pack, then

left to grab more maxi-pads.

Lying there without her, I thought

about the pond and what she said

about boys, and wondered if she’d

get an “A” in dodgeball or get bruised.

Passing gym class. It’s all in

participating or getting hurt trying.