Elegy
The day after Raphy’s mother died I took him to the woods behind my house. He followed like a child. We were fourteen; that morning, I had swabbed my mother’s perfume up both sides of my neck, in each armpit, and on the insides of my thighs. Years of longing were coiled in my belly. Months of unspent tenderness were shored up in my heart.
I led him down through the sycamores to the banks of the creek. I sat on a rock.
“I have done nothing but love you all year,” I said in my head.
To him I said, “Come sit by me.”
I had never touched his face before, but now he let me stroke the places on his jaw where the hair was beginning to grow in. His eyes were shut. I was afraid to say the things I had planned to say. I bent my face so that our noses touched. I opened my mouth and put it against his. He didn’t resist. He tasted like water. I unbuttoned my shirt and I put his hand inside it. His fingers found my nipple under my little bra. I thought we should move to flatter ground. I held his hand and I led him to the yellow grass where the creek bent.
We saw the dog when we lay down. It was curled on the margin of the water. Its ears were pointed, its tail fanned; its fur was the color of toast. A fly buzzed near it; it didn’t move.
I stood with Raphy. I tried to lead him to another spot, but he dropped my hand. He didn’t look me in the eye before he ran back up the bank, through the woods, and away. I stood shirtless in the September air. Night was falling and the sky was grey. What could I do? I knelt by the dead dog and stroked its fur. I sang it a little song.