Angela Allen

Faded photo of Angela in a bathing suit next to a beach chair and sun shield

I recall
my first kiss,
first date,
first sex,
first husband —
but I can’t remember
my first love.
Those boys blend
together like faded plaids,
growing into their shoulders,
pausing from driveway hoops
to flirt, better at finding flesh
than words
(though clumsy with bra hooks),
drinking beer,
then showing up
on Sunday mornings
carrying the cross in
front of the choir,
or acolyte torches
behind us, scuffed shoes
sneaking out from under
ill-fitting cassocks,
a little hung over.
I kind of loved them all.
Why tell them apart?