I was two
thirty-two pounds
and three foot even,
according to the scratches
on the kitchen door,
the first time—

the only time
I remember agreeing with the Baptists
on what they call sin,
I was nine
sweat stuck
shoved against a southern
church pew
thinking they must be right
that sin comes to you
looking like an angel

I was remembering—

the halo tinted liquid,
on the too tall worn down trailer park
and I like Eve
reached for seeds and juice
of some serpent’s fruit.

my chubby fingers
bent in the twelve ribs
of the clear, plastic cup.
Me, learning
what displacement meant
when they cracked back,
spewing golden waterfalls
on the lemon scented linoleum floor
I tried to exorcise myself,

my untouched tongue
growing goose bumps
as I learned that touch
isn’t always gentle.