JESSICA GREENBAUM
The First, Youngest Men
Were not artful enough by half, but we got over
On their sweat, summer’s condiment, and magnificent
Proximity, as if actors had stepped off stage
To climb in our laps. Sometimes they were so lanky
Their corduroys could not shape to their hips
And hollows, and then we were warmed by the rays
Their pelvic bones sent over the horizon of their belts,
And sometimes their heft eclipsed a tender manner
So surprising we did not know what would come next
And we were frightened. We loved their long hair,
Their brotherhood with guitars and drums, and something
The ages should not overlook is that we were magnetized
By peacefulness, and by people who desired it. Memory
Adopted those t-shirts, left hanging on a branch
By the lake, that had enjoyed the confidence of their collar
Bones and chests; whichever sweaters their mothers
Had lifted from dresser to trunk we took to heart its pattern
And feel against our chin; whatever posture they took
In opposition or even admiration for authority impressed
On us the dash of their autonomy, and where they
Touched us we went phosphorescent, like the lake’s skin
Sparking as a diver breaks it, for breath. The tang of pine
Boughs and cold offset, as if arranged, their warm hands
And neck, and there was the weight—that defining
Body-long entrance to our space—while the constellations
Floated, years before they pressed down on our men
With the spite of the abandoned, a handful at a time.
