It happened among wildflowers, sitting

on grass his father mowed the day before.

I was reading a story he’d written for school

when he scooted closer and closer,

until his shaking knee grazed mine.

Over twice his age, I felt all of the twelve years

of his life in deep breaths, pounding heart like

a hammer in the toolbox, jumping out. To be saved

and to be free. A kiss can do that to you, you know.

And he, the neighbor boy, wanted to know. He was dying.

Before I could move, he leaned in to kiss me in that golden hour.

A hand on each shoulder, lips wet and too fast. I sat, stunned.

Just then, his mom called from the back porch for dinner,

asked if I wanted some raspberry jam she’d canned.

I couldn’t breathe from that hard sweetness,

that impossible and sticky summer,

for the unbreakable little boy with a shelf life.

I held the glass jar tight to my chest the whole way home,

unable to bear the thought of it shattering—