Josie Milliken: Runner-Up, 2006 Utah Writers' Contest



mutable


 once, while scrubbing burnt 
 		spaghetti off stained steel,
 during the summer I
 		stopped shaving my legs,
 a boy came up, and kissed 
 		the back of my neck, and 
 didn't stop— 
even when, outside the 
   	window above the sink, 
green lawns cooled into 
   	dark, and television
lights blinked life 
   	through loose curtains—
over rakes, tulips, tossed 
   	bicycles—until the darkness 
made a mirror—
and he pulled my hair up,
   	and pressed himself
closer, and his mouth, 
   	closer, until my fingers 
wrinkled into oversunned
   	tomatoes, and my neck
became every thing I 
   	ever felt, in this body, 
and the world—
and the pot shone bright 
   	as the sunrise would, 
the next summer, when, 
   	after giving up underwear, 
I sat on a roof, and fell 
   	in love with skirts, and warm
	wind, and the moments air and 
   	light met, turning all
to honey, and to orange.