Under the 8-Track Night

splits the sycamore trees.
Water shimmers.

Becky, Bonnie, Sandy,
all of them laughing,
tipsy on wine coolers.

They know
they’ve got the magic
that will carry them through life.

Bare skin, goosebumps,
all ass and legs.

They run into the water,
splashing, shrieking,
the sun dripping into the horizon.

I strip,
hands sticky with beer,
heart hammering,
nervous, alive.

We swim slow,
bob up and down,
breathe,
girls worried
about fish and water snakes.

Bonnie grabs me
under the water.
“Hey girls,
somebody likes what they see.”

As darkness wraps us
in the blanket of youth,
my eyes strain
to see nipples
and little patches of hair.

Sandy’s 8-track blares Freebird
from her old Monte Carlo.
Those three guitars
wailing, endless.

Conquering heroes
emerge from the same lake
I used to catch bass in.

The water swallows our secrets,
our first awakenings.

I suggest we stay naked
and build a bonfire.

The girls just laugh
and pull on their jeans,
don’t comprehend
that this moment
will stay with me forever.