This one is for the girls [? from ?] [? now. ?] Where'd it
go?
Don't you hate this when this happens?
Oh, I know, I pulled it out.
Here it is.
This one's called "Practicing."
It's for the girls.
"Practicing."
I want to write a love poem for the girls
I kissed in seventh grade, a song for what we
did on the floor in the basement of somebody's parents'
house, a hymn for what we didn't say but thought--
"That feels good," or "I like that"
when we learned how to open each other's mouths,
how to move our tongues to make somebody moan.
We called it practicing, and one was the boy, and we paired off--
maybe six or eight girls--
and turned out the lights and kissed and kissed
until we were stoned on kisses, and lifted our nightgowns
or let the straps drop, and, now you be the boy--
concrete floor, sleeping bag or couch, playroom, game room,
train room, laundry.
Linda's basement was like a boat with booths and portholes
instead of windows.
Gloria's father had a bar downstairs
with stools that spun, plush carpeting.
We kissed each other's throats.
We sucked each other's breasts, and we left marks and never
spoke of it upstairs, outdoors, in daylight, not once.
We did it, and it was practicing, and slept,
sprawled so our legs still locked or crossed,
a hand still lost in someone's hair.
And we grew up and hardly mentioned
who the first kiss really was--
a girl like us, still sticky with a moisturizer
we had shared in the bathroom.
I want to write a song for that thick silence in the dark,
and the first pure thrill of unreluctant desire,
just before we made ourselves stop.
[APPLAUSE]