My First

By Miguel Martin Perez

You had me wait 

in the dark: bathrooms, 

closets, underneath bedframes,

breath hidden in pillows.


I learned early to hide

for touch, learned early

to crave, to wait, mislearned

early, love as pining,

taken, nonreciprocal. 


At seven, behind thick doors

or in the shower, unlocked.

Ten, in apartment building

storage rooms. Thirteen,

after late movies, your sister

having fallen asleep beside me,

you unbuttoned my pajamas.

 

Fourteen, desperate: you 

kept me incapable

of fantasizing anyone else.

My final prayer to God,

as I counted the snores

till I could sneak to your room,

to your grown body 

and its apathy,

I prayed – Dear God, please

please don’t let me

like him, please 

God, please – fuck – keep me

normal, God, I beg you

to nothing.

 

Tiptoed into your open lap

to please god, to please

with more daring, bolder,

with mouth, with a love that

could at least seem older.

 

Sixteen––deeper, you

took my breath in your palm,

plunged my soul right out, tried

to take me as I bent below

the crack under the door,

lookout. I told you no,

no, I haven’t done this.


You respected that, 

at the very least. Still,

I’d never heard you 

laugh before.


Miguel Martin Perez (he/him) is a queer, Afro-Latino, Dominican-American poet who grew up in Harlem and the South Bronx. A recent MFA graduate from the University of California in Riverside, he currently resides in Los Angeles. His work appears or is forthcoming in Beyond Words and Riddled with Arrows.

Previous
Previous

A Life with You

Next
Next

Ode to 2019