Ode to the Boy Who Jumped Me

You and your friend stood
on the corner of the liquor store
as I left Champa Garden,

takeout in hand, on the phone
with Ashley who said,
That was your tough voice.

I never heard your tough voice before.
I gave you boys a quick nod,
walked E 21st past dark houses.

Before I could reach the lights
on Park, you criss-crossed
your hands around me,

like a friend and I'd hoped
that you were Seng,
the boy I kissed on First Friday

in Octeber. He paid for my lunch
at that restaurant, split the leftovers.
But that was a long time ago

and we hadn't spoken since,
so I dropped to my knees
to loosen myself from your grip,

my back to the ground, I kicked
and screamed but nobody
in the neighborhood heard me,

only Ashley on the other line,
in Birmingham, where they say,
How are you? to strangers

not what I said in my tough voice
but what I last texted Seng,
no response. You didn't get on top,

you hovered. My elbows banged
the sidewalk. I threw
the takeout at you and saw

your face. Young. More scared
of me than I was of you.
Hands on my ankles, I thought

you'd take me or rape me.
Instead you acted like a man
who slipped out of my bed

and promised to call:
You said nothing.
Not even what you wanted.

Monica Sok, original publicstion in Poem-of-the-Day, February 20, 2020