Ted Trautman and Kevin Smith,
the toughest kids in sixth grade,
taped Kiss posters all over Sister's
class while I waited out my detention.
And there above Gene Simmons'
frizzed out, dyed-black hair was Jesus
on the cross, stigmata's still blazoned
with red paint, crown of thorns piercing his brow,
slack limbs hanging with the weight of everyone's sins.
"Buschi if you tell you're dead."
Elsewhere kids were jumping
into backyard swimming pools
pretending to hate the one they loved
because that's how it worked back then,
while I stared at Gene Simmons' tongue thrust
out of his face painted Glam-rock meets Kabuki.
KISS painted in black sharp angles
with the sounds of smack and hiss like a whipped cymbal,
and, kiss was what I had never done,
but would "French style" years later
with Ted in the back of his father's station wagon,
"Buschi it's your turn."
The sting of Southern Comfort at the back of my throat,
and the shiver after, and the shame held deep,
so deep I didn't recognize its bass drum.
And as the spring wind dried
his spit on my lips taut as egg-white,
I could have cracked wide open.
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