How Love Will Come, and When

He’s only eight, but one
day his muscles will swell,
and girls will giggle
hand-cupped secrets in his ear
as he smiles and pushes his tongue
into the cushion of his cheek.

I watch them sifting dirt; they compare
snails they have evacuated
from hard-cased swirls, then mash mud between
hands, forcing it to ooze
between fingers. She offers hers, a perfect
round pie without the cherry,
to him. He spots a bullrush and splits it open
blowing the seeds like dancing
stars in her face.

They take off running,
bare feet hitting hot asphalt.

The heat doesn’t bother them. Their soles
are unblemished, ripe. Their only
worry is who will get there
first; the swing will not stay empty long.

Years away, girls will wait with giggles
and cupped hands and breasts that
are just beginning to swell, like the twisted
knots of the tree he climbs.

Today they are making mud pies. Tomorrow
they’ll be making love,
splitting one another open,
and entering a place
beyond hand-cupped secrets.