At seventeen it’s hard to avoid erections –
harder than I thought – when every boy you kiss
seems to have one. That ramrod shock
like a trapped bird that clocks
against something you’re told is precious,
something like its own reflection.
At seventeen it’s hard – harder than I thought –
not to treat it like trigonometry.
A test to pass. A straightforward calculation.
Like: kissing = erection = complication.
Find x for an upskirt hand in the senior study,
slick to the fear of getting caught.
At seventeen I was a May-bud shaking.
Preferred Donne to Shakespeare. Prone to faking.