At fifteen
we sat in church
Sundays
and felt guilty
about the sex
Saturdays.
We wouldn’t
hear
the sermons—
we would feel
each other’s hands
for movements and sweat—
meters to distinguish
if there was anguish
or lavish disconnection
from Jesus Christ—
the Savior of all things adolescent.
In the winters
we would escape
through congregation
men
and women
and find ourselves
blasted
by ice
floating from the sky.
In nylons
I would shiver
and you would drive
me away
to a place
where you bought me
macadamia nut
steamers.
I hated macadamia nuts,
but you were eighteen
and I fifteen
and “macadamia nut steamers”
sounded mature
and good
to young ears.
I grew
to love the drink
because I knew it
was for the Saturday
sex
the Sunday
guilt
the love I knew
you felt. You wanted
to warm me when Christ was gone
and compassion was lost in Sunday sermons
and Saturday nights turned
to Monday mornings.
©Julie Bolitho. “macadamia nut steamers,” Poem. Standing on the Cast Iron Shore and Other Poems. Leaf Books Press: 2008, p. 83.
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