Ode to the Boy Who Jumped Me

You and your friend stood  
on the corner of the liquor store 
as I left Champa Garden, 

takeout in hand, on the phone  
with Ashley who said,  
That was your tough voice.

I never heard your tough voice before.  
I gave you boys a quick nod,  
walked E 21st past dark houses. 

Before I could reach the lights  
on Park, you criss-crossed  
your hands around me,

like a friend and I’d hoped  
that you were Seng,  
the boy I’d kissed on First Friday 

in October. He paid for my lunch  
at that restaurant, split the leftovers.  
But that was a long time ago 

and we hadn’t spoken since,  
so I dropped to my knees  
to loosen myself from your grip, 

my back to the ground, I kicked  
and screamed but nobody  
in the neighborhood heard me, 

only Ashley on the other line,  
in Birmingham, where they say  
How are you? to strangers 

not what I said in my tough voice 
but what I last texted Seng,  
no response. You didn’t get on top, 

you hovered. My elbows banged  
the sidewalk. I threw  
the takeout at you and saw 

your face. Young. More scared  
of me than I was of you.  
Hands on my ankles, I thought 

you’d take me or rape me.  
Instead you acted like a man  
who slipped out of my bed

and promised to call:  
You said nothing.  
Not even what you wanted.