In seventh grade， when we were alone for

    An afternoon， no chance of being caught，

    Silk was what we sought in our sisters' rooms.

    It was enough to hold silk and name girls

    Who were slipping off the slick things we touched：

    Pajamas¹， panties， lace-trimmed slips with straps²

    Designed to be nudged by passionate³ hands.

    Three or four together in those bedrooms，

    We turned alike， drawing silk things over

    Our skin like fingertips， lifting our shirts，

    Opening our pants in dark unisons

    Of desire that made us refold those things

    Exactly， replacing them in order

    Until the afternoon one of us slid

    That silk over his head to bring himself

    Closer to pleasure， and he did， though none

    Of us would touch or talk to him， the words

    For his transformed body disappearing

    Like faith long before any of us knew

    The quiet history of silk， the way

    Taming turned the silkworms from tan to white.

    The way， defenseless， but unharmed， they stopped

    Trying to escape. The way， become moths⁴，

    They didn't fly， how they mated and died，

    Without once opening their damp， pale wings.