My first lover was a pianist
now he is bald,
a truck driver, married
to a woman with my hair.

He was never allowed to date
his parents would drive us to church
while his fingers fell into my body

and before the first hymn
lifting a hand to his mouth,

he’d look over the congregation
a god beginning to play.

For three years he found
the small parts of my desire
hidden, as I stood silent

in worship, a Mary
with all the dead angels at her feet.

And no one ever knew
we were lovers. Even today
while giving a list of names
I do not say his.

But his mother once told me
when I was seven
sliding around in my chair
during the part in Revelations

when Jesus comes again
that I would never find love
because I was one of those girls

who never understood
the word sit.