The First Time

by Gabriella Belfiglio

We were brimming with hope,
as if we were the Atlantic itself
instead of two small cups of water.
Under a picture of us in the yearbook,
the caption reads:
Most Likely to Make the World a Better Place.
I am wearing a cloche,
my untamed hair escaping onto his shoulders.
He’s holding his guitar—the strap
graffitied with roses and peace symbols
and a smiling Dead skull.
That Earth Day, the two of us
cut school. Under the bleachers,
next to cigarette butts and empty Coke cans,
we smoked a joint and
escaped out a hole in the fence.

On my childhood bed,
while the house was empty
we were naked and laughing at ourselves.
In the movies, when people had sex
it all seemed so seamless.
His penis was more floppy
than I thought it would be.
I unfurled the condom down the soft flesh,
wrapping the wrapper in a tissue
before sneaking it into the trashcan by my bed
smothered in stickers.
Neither of us knew how to fit him inside.
I remember the whine of the old mattress,
familiar with the weight of bodies
from years my brother and I
spent trampolining into its soft center.
My jaw hurt from smiling.

Going all the way was my idea,
and even though I can’t remember
any pain, I was relieved when he thrust
a little harder into his finish.
After he slipped out of me,
I held his spongy back,
and my fingers became salty with sweat.
Van Morrison’s voice, that had
disappeared, returned
and I thought: it's settled now—
Arthur, Me, Forever.