LATE BLOOMER: A SONNENIZIO
My body bloomed the counterpart of two
souls, two Sicilians who met in America,
two musicians: a vocalist, a pianist; he
her voice instructor too promiscuous for a chaste
Catholic girl. She pined two years after
a man who fled to Florida from New York:
It must have been about 1972,
after Harvey Milk moved to San Francisco,
before Dade County refused to recognize
gay rights. 22 years late, Papa realized
his marriage to my mother wasn’t traditional.
Under cover, he’d leer at two men: hugging chests
pressed together like swollen genitals,
kissing tongues suctioned like two tentacles.
ANYTHING YOU CAN DO I CAN DO BETTER
Law—woods—door—anchor—crafts—chair—corner—congress—blues—sea—states—show—watch—ax—auto—anti—clans—fire—repair—every—fresh—fisher—super—sales—lay—hang—gun—clergy—gentle—milk—kins—book—boogey—police—post—press—weather—work—water—drafts—funny—fore—oars—rafts—jazz—tax—trigger—garbage—grooms—minute—mad—delivery—free—earth—harvest—handy—helms—hench—trencher—noble—board—boats—bush—sand—ad—desk—pike—plow—wing—wise—ice—crew—cave—cavalry—quarry—yacht—tally—toll—town—trades—sound—spkoes—sports—space—pivot—point—militia—middle—missile—lumber—junk—jury—money—marks—reins—plains
man.
IT BEGINS WITH OUR MOTHERS
Good girls don’t make scenes; keep your mouth, legs, and eyes shut. Listen, but not too well: men like their women agreeable; nod, like you’re giving a blow job. Don’t sleep around, lose virtue, the sacred gift. The perfect woman has a baby without ever being fucked. So keep your second mouth closed tighter. The only thing it should speak is babies. Did Mama forget the blood of 20 or 30 years? How confused I was to see spots on my panties, like someone snapped a picture. Blinding light circles. Mama caught me using a tampon and said I’d break my hymen. At dinner, proud as a pimp, she told my father and brother: Today my little girl became a woman. They had no congratulations. I sank lower under the fork-to-mouth silence.
FRIENDS WITH BENEFITS
We had a deal. No cuddling. No terms of endearment. No possession. No tender words. Well, maybe Good head. Friends with benefits. It was half day; his mother worked until six. Still, I gave my first blow job on the checkerboard floor of his roach-infested closet. He was the dirtiest pop punk with the biggest sixteen-year-old dick. Although sex was the intended benefit, what I reaped was much different: friendship. Long phone conversations into late school nights: from family to sex to dreams to silly things. Free rides anywhere in a beat up 70s hand-me-down from his dad, a stick shift he could hardly drive. Someone to sit with at lunch, meet in the morning before class, go home and jam with after school. Company: a close warm body, a gruff hand in my hair, a contagious laugh, a shared cigarette. The blowjobs kept him coming. That afternoon in his closet, and thereafter, I stopped him from going down on me because my bush was bushy, and I thought of a story he told me about his friend PJ who reached inside panties to find a hairy peachfish and ran for the hills.
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Angela S. Patane lives in Orlando, FL where she teaches game design at Full Sail University. She's currently working on an MFA at Goddard College. If she could, she would drink nothing but honeysuckle black tea.