He Smelled Like Grass

by Amanda Chiado

When he fell from the Ferris wheel
I closed my eyes to think of kissing him.

My heart, a madness of gears oiled
by the scent of boys. God, how good

it would have felt. He did not open
his wings when he descended. Father,

They’d not grown in yet. I had a crush
on him, and his holy-light eyes. Cotton

candy-blue, fell as well. He’d bought it
with his own money. He smelled like grass

from mowing lawns for five dollar bills.
His reluctant mother let him go out alone.

He walked to the unhinged fair to meet me.
My father was bungee jumping, would

Not let me go to out alone, trigger-scared
Of skinny boys and their hot-heavy hands.

I was looking up when gravity waved hello.
My father on thread of elastic, the freed boy

Falling toward me, but landing harder
Than all the tempered angels had hoped.

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