The Secret Streets of Heaven
I kept it quiet, the way I felt about you,
because you were the wrong gender, that
blonde hair dripping down your shoulders.
You were an old photograph, your
thin, pink lips and long, pale bones.
You were soft but strong, that gentle
toughness building under paper skin.
In German class we’d trace the
cartography of your veins. While everyone
else counted to ten, all I could think was
Von dieser Strasse, Himmel.
And at the skating rink, we had that
joke of a kiss, a double-dare, mouths
meeting; fingers aching for less distance.
That taste of you was open and dreaming,
the disco blue blue blue and the beats
thundering all the way through me—
on my tongue, more dares form. Or wishes.
Sometimes I still wonder how it would have
felt—my palms made full with you, gripping
and tightening; your hair a rope around my
neck, hanging me out to dry.
About the author:
Victoria Fryer is a writer, among other things, living in rural Pennsylvania with her husband and two lap-dog pit bulls. Her work has appeared in Wayman Publishing's Open Doors: Fractured Fairy Tales anthology and Akashic Books' Thursdaze flash fiction series.