Twelve, or What Your Hands Already Know

My roommate got sick at two in the morning

and I found myself on the bathroom floor,

holding her hair back the way you do—

and then I was twelve.

My cousin. A family reunion somewhere

in the exurbs, a backyard and a basement.

She'd been kneeling and her hair was in the way

and my hands knew before I did.

The party through the door—muffled music,

an aunt laughing somewhere

at a punchline I couldn't hear—

was the same sound coming through the window tonight

from whatever was still going on next door.

Twenty years between the two tile floors.

The same motion.

Her hair was damp at the temples.

That's what I remember—

not the smell, not the embarrassment

of being twelve in a situation

I hadn't been briefed on,

but the weight of her hair

and the certainty of knowing, without anyone telling me,

exactly where to put my hands.

Nobody taught me that.

I've been thinking about what else

I know that way.