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Derodel, Dmitri, In Which the Second Sex Scene of Moonlight Makes the Cut

DERODEL, DMITRI

Dmitri Derodel
Age: 17, Grade: 12

School Name: Frank Sinatra High School Of The Arts, Astoria, NY
Educator: Stella Lee

Category: Poetry

In Which the Second Sex Scene of Moonlight Makes the Cut

Your chest is a jug of orange juice,
                                                a gasoline pump,
                        and this prayer is lazy, just as it should be.
                                                                                You rise
                                                                                as if it were for you (and maybe
                                                                                                                        it is).
                Your legs are now the rhinestone in the navel of a belly dancer
                                                                as a pair of diamonds watch on,
                                                gaze locked but still unraveling itself,
        
                        and so many things
                                                                                        are opening now.
    
        You shakin’. 
                                Like a junkie. 
                                        How do you tell him
                                                        the room is crumbling? That your blood cells        
                                                                                        are a stampede?
            
                        Agree with him. Treat his palm
                like a stethoscope that’s hard of hearing. 
                                                                                        Yes, it is flat, but it isn’t resting     
                                                                                                              on your chest—no,
it’s wide awake.                It’s a hermit crab, 
                                                                a chinchilla.
                                                                                                        It’s late.
                                                                                                                Don’t tell him.
                        He flips the light switch like it’s a house,
                                                        returns to you in the dark 
                                                                           like a firefly eager for a purpose,
                                                        and your state hasn’t changed.         
                                                                                                                            You still shakin’.

                 You, a tweezed guitar string, are trembling. 
                                                The man before you was meant for a world more sacred,
                                                                    but so were you.

                        Sunlight needn’t be seen in order to be felt.

      Five rising tides caress you
                                and your lips mingle with his like melting wax, 
                                                                                     like soaked beginnings,
                                                           like somewhere in this darkness 
                              is rushing to be mopped up.

                                        The surf digs into your back. 
                                                Water is a shapeshifter
                                                                        and this reunion, 
                                this relearning of bodies,
                                                                        floods the room.

                                   Passion will cleanse you both.

        You are the sea, and he the sky,
                                                both of you starved and clouded with mania,
                                both of you blue and rippling and endless in the night.