First Love

by David Banach

---

Solitary and private, in shame and in the bathroom, 
where everything is white and you can’t use the towels,
you that I have adored for so long, my secret friend
of so many hours, it was as if we were seeing each 
other for the first time.

And, sure, I had met you before, in 5th grade,
feeling you cramped and moving in my pants
at a glimpse of red under a desk between
immodestly dangled legs like a danger flag. 
And you stood awake now, full of fear
of the forbidden, whispering promises up
from under my desk.

And here I whispered back, knowing as I
had been told, that if you shake it more than
three times you were playing with it, knowing
for the first time, that I did not care, that
I would take this sacrament, and as you
gave what was promised, spitting and gasping, 
as if for air, thin worthless seed of future
pleasures, I knew that I loved you.

---

David Banach teaches philosophy in New Hampshire, where he tends chickens, keeps bees, and watches the sky. He has published poems in Symmetry Pebbles, Hare’s Paw, Please See Me, Poets' Touchstone, and other places. He also does the Poetrycast podcast for Passengers Journal, along with Andreea Ceplinschi.