Katie Vagnino

Oxford, Mississippi

I remember: climbing under fences,
scaling sycamores, your freckles browning
in the August heat. The air was ripe:
mint mixed with sweat and honeysuckle,
cicadas clustering like debutantes,
sun smoldering like a gentleman’s cigar
as we walked alongside the stream,
marveling at its opacity of dragonflies,
cattails, tin cans. You held me back,
kept me from drinking, even though I longed
to feel grit in my throat, taste the hint
of metal in the water. Our house, looming
like Priam’s palace after the siege, was no
sanctuary — but there were nights on the roof,
first with you, then with other boys who ran
their fingers across my neck, kissed me
until my lips were red around the edges.
We used to lie in bed, hips touching, hands locked,
waiting for morning to ignite the horizon
in shocks of pink and grey. Once I came home
too late and found you awake by candlelight,
wax dripping on your hands.
I knew your mind that night, as I had the day
we climbed the tree with lazy branches out back —
You cried for my ruined white dress,
the mud in my hair.

Author Bio

Katie Vagnino is a second year poetry student in the Creative Writing MFA program at Emerson College in Boston. She has written theater, art and food reviews for publications including Time Out New York, Smithsonian’s The Torch and New York Magazine. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Merge, nibble, nthWORD, The Road Not Taken, The Raintown Review and Waterways. She also writes a biweekly column for The Sex Appeal blog and posts regularly on her own blog, The Vagnino Monologues.