Memorial Day With G.

I twist the caps,
you pour, we then
carry our steins

to the living
room and sit side
by side where we
toast absent friends

lost to AIDS, drugs,
random violence,
accidents so
senseless they sound

like bad movies.
These thoughts we don’t
share, not out loud,
for we are young,

invincible,
and all this shit,
it happens to
other people,

never us, no.
Instead, you stare
into your glass
then say, at last,

"You know, we’re girls."
I nod and agree.
"The thought, it had,
occurred to me."

"We’re not supposed
to like beer," you
declare and take
a defiant sip.

I also drink,
then set my glass
aside, slip my
chilled hand beneath

your blouse to cup
a soft, warm breast.
You gasp at the
touch, lean into

it, and I smile,
though feeling sad.
"We’re not supposed
to love each other

either," I say
and press my lips
to yours, my own
rebellion at

the vanishing
of the hours,
the vanquishing
of this, our youth.