Issue 22 - 1992

Coe Review • Issue 22
Ten
James Nulick
My mother named me Jamie and I also had a cousin
named Jamie who was the same age I was--
at Sunday meals one of our mothers would call out
Our name and both of us would respond with hesitancy and
confusion
(no, not you honey, My Jamie)
Both of us had rust colored hair and dark eyes and we would
often wear each other’s clothes, even though we knew
Our mothers would scold us for it--
Jamie and I had a three-sided wooden box with a hole cut in the top
set up deep behind the lush green tapestry of trees and grapevines
in my backyard, far away from the limited view my mother had
outside her backyard window, and everyday after school we would
eat cookies and milk my mother fed us and then we would journey
into the backyard and undress each other in our secret fort made of
quarter inch plywood and solid strong two by fours
(we built it ourselves),
kissing each other gently on the lips as we explored our bodies with
meticulous fingers and the warm wet tips of sandpaper tongues--
Once I took him in my mouth and he tasted like warm peppered
mashed potatoes, the kind Mama made
(soft and buttery, they would glide right down your throat)
We would hold each other tight in our bony arms, our honeycolored
skin ripening with the inevitable summer sun, we would hold each
other and pretend we were twins who had the same Mom and Dad
and
owned a matching set of hornet yellow motorcross bikes, racing
them
in the powdery fields behind my house
I’d say to him Jamie, do you have to use the bathroom?
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