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. 