The First Time My Ass Was Grabbed

I was just filled out and fifteen–

a lipstick ad’s full pout–
on a Spanish moss draped vacation
in Charleston’s honey-thick August.
Mother, father, brother, sisters, and I
held trolley poles and jostled along
with the rest of the tourists–tight
and crumpled soft pack cigarettes.
My thin cotton dress sweat-pasted
around my buttocks’ curves.
The pinch, a quick goat bite,
bruised peach skin not broken.
Shame venom flushed my head,
an old screen door swung and banged
after the grope’s retreating wind
to find where those fingers belonged.
But all the …