Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2011 v10n1
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Iron Curtain

           Warsaw, Poland, 1988.
3 Minutes in the Closet meant

           another stab
at learning how to kiss,

wire hangers clanging,
           a pair of gray galoshes

knocked across the floor. 
           Pressed between

wool overcoats and winter
           scarves, I smelled

           the boy’s cologne,
like something furred

           had died inside his shirt.
Our teeth scraped together,

           the friction of a car
that drags its muffler down

the road, his hands searching
           the back pocket of my jeans

as though to find a missing key. 
           He whispered Polish phrases

in my neck, your neck he said
           your neck. I wanted words

that came out hot, American,
           like kiss me fuck me fuck me.

           I only tasted metal.
Or maybe I wanted to pull back

           the screen dividing us,
touch the velvet part of him,

break the skin’s barrier,
           inflexible and cold.  end

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