Tablecloths

Some smells are

etched in the mind

like

sweat mingled

with IHOP

pancake mix,

or the ick

after the kiss

when

I spat out some corn

from his teeth.

He said it was his

first

time

too.

I was sixteen then.

He was

twenty-two.

My window latch

wouldn’t stay shut.

I

didn’t say

yes.

But like a greedy,

hungry man at an

all-you-can-eat buffet,

he took handfuls,

and I

lay flat,

like a table should,

and closed my eyes

and gripped my sheets because

even a table, if proper,

needs cloth—

otherwise it gets stained,

sold for cheap.

I cried.

He said sorry

until the next week.

And after he loved me again,

I felt sick.

I say

I forgive him.

It’s been sixteen years.

I wonder where he’s at

and if he

hates

tablecloths

still.