My mountain bike needed
tuning after years of neglect
so I took it to the shop
and the young man working there
looked at it in disdain.
It would take days to fix my old bike,
he said, and rolled his eyes.
I looked at his long hair, white t-shirt,
his low-slung pants
and though I was old enough to be his mother,
I watched his body move
like sweetgrass in spring.
He smiled at me watching him
and explained how my tires were
true, but I needed new brake pads,
chain, seat and tires.
I was happy to let him fix everything.
When the bike was ready,
my tongue became as smooth as a pearl
and I called him over once more
to adjust the seat.
He leaned over and his skin smelled like sun
on slickrock sand.
His arms were long
and when he stood, I
could hear the murmur of his ribs.
He was so beautiful, I was
afraid to speak. If I opened my mouth,
yew berries, little mariposa souls would rattle out
instead of words.
Mothers of boys are dangerous.
We have pressed our mouths against the small flesh
that came from us, extracting ambrosia
from flowers only we can find.
