First

Did the honor really belong to the boy who planted

squat lips on me? Planted not like a tree

or even a seed but like a golf  ball smacked

into the hard ground, nothing that would open

or grow, unfurling like punctuation, teeth on teeth,

a sentence abruptly ended in the mall vestibule

by the ramble of my father’s pickup truck there

to take me home. But later, alone in my room,

true love bloomed like Narcissus flowers once

again on the pool of blue carpet, lips parting

in practiced prayer, petal soft and striving

stamen against the cool mirror.