They make your panties smell
like dirty bike chains.

We were sitting on her mother’s plastic coated floral couch,
one of us in a swimsuit, the other sworn to layers.

The water was her selling point and I was terrified of tampons
or rather
terrified of the undiscovered crater, the muscle that holds and pulls
and keeps and sheds.

She said, I’ll do it for you
and yes, we had seen each other naked many times,
we had showered together and compared nipples, wished to trade
the smalls and bigs of our respective bodies.

So it wasn’t unnatural, really, when I squatted on the toilet seat
and she laid down on the floor
like a mechanic investigating the underbelly of a car.

With plastic syringe in hand, she wedged the packed cotton into me,
this was what I saw last
before blacking out and collapsing onto the tile—
Jordan, Blood Scholar, in a turquoise bikini
saying, Now you are ready to swim.