by Dee Newman
Do you remember that evening we tried studying together
While your parents watched television in the other room?
How we kept forever changing our positions –
From sitting cross-legged on the floor, facing one another,
To lying innocently, side-by-side, on our stomachs,
As our anxious adolescent bodies moved, ever so slowly,
Together, until they were, at last, touching?
Do you recall how they flinched when your mother
Walked in on us and found you lying on top of my back
With your chin on my shoulder softly reading to me
From that American History book that lay, fortunately, opened
On the floor in front of us, and asked, rather dispassionately,
“Are you sure you two are getting much studying done like that?”