Learning Curve

Originally published in Waterways, Vol. 30, No. 10

I don’t remember learning how to wrap
a gift, who taught me with steady hands
to tie the string around my fingers, curl
the ends. Tying shoelaces I’ll credit to Dad,
along with telling time and jokes, balancing
a checkbook, chopping onions without crying.
In fifth grade, Val showed me how to run
a razor over my legs, warned Watch out
around the ankles. French kissing: the honor
goes to a wiry boy whose name was James
(or John?) who slid his timid tongue across
my gums, placed his hand on my hairless knee.
You can break a promise and be forgiven
I learned from my mother, as well as how
to flirt while knotting a necktie around
your lover’s throat. I picked up lying on my own,
first small things like I’ve never felt this way
before, then bigger, hungrier untruths:
This glass will be my last; sex means nothing;
everything happens for a reason.