Rebecca Foust


I was thirteen, and there was a boy’s mouth  
where my legs met. My heart beat 

like a bird caught in a bag, let’s say
for her plumage. I could smell his want,

thirteen and there was a boy, and I became 
something salt and sweet

where my legs met. My heart like a bird
swelled and split 

the clear air with its song. I was the must,
the first press wine,

thirteen, and only this boy and the needles 
under the pines, 

that cedar bed, fragrant and ancient as dust
and where my legs met—thirst— 

a boy, my heart like a bright, caught bird