Devin touched me in high school
the way a boy sticks his hand
out the car window on road trips.
His hands were warm from
whatever it is boys do in their
pockets—move things around,
fiddle with keys. Even in a
backseat, there is revelation. I knew
then that my boobs were meant for
hands other than mine, for more
than nursing some future baby
the adult me might deliver.

In college, I learned how to turn
a dorm room into a tennis court.
How to lob a man after bringing him to
the net, how to serve out the set, how
to win love, love. Devin didn’t complain
when I taught him to touch my tits
without using his hands. We practiced
being grownups, tried not to get hurt.

I warn my husband there can be blood
in breast milk. So says one of the books
collected by our bed, each page marked
like the TripTiks I used to navigate
the nineties. Breast-fed babies are more
likely to succeed in life. I take notes.
Women who give birth before thirty
are less likely to develop breast cancer.
I buy a calendar. I plan. I forget the body
is a playground. Somewhere Devin
grows old with his wife and kids, hands
stuffed deep into empty pockets.