Bambi Girls by Cayla Garman

Bambi Girls

She is all girl,
chestnut waves, freckles,
cold-pink cheeks,
and this is the closest
she’s ever been,
all doe-eyes and eyelashes
as she snuggles into my side,
places her gloved hand just
against mine.
For warmth, she says.
We sit on a frosted boulder
at the overlook, river below.
A passing hiker could see us,
our knit layers the only space
between our bodies.
She knows I am queer.
This is her first time
in these woods.
I know how dark, how cold
it can get here. I know
the wolves that stalk,
growling low,
the hunters that jeer
through their iron sights,
but all I hear tonight
is her contented sigh
as she settles her head
into my shoulder.
I push aside the thought
that someone could see
to make more room
for thinking about her.
She lifts her head
to make a little joke,
pointing at something below,
already giggling at her own wit,
a leaves on the breeze laugh,
and I kiss her. I kiss her
on accident, on purpose, on the instinct
to kiss the girl you love,
but mostly because of that laugh,
her brown eyes glowing
like warm honey.
I kiss her so much
we snap twigs,
knock pebbles loose.
I let my guard down
to draw her closer,
to melt into the curves of her body,
to hold and to be held.
I quiver like the tree line,
branches parting as something,
someone, hears her soft breath
against my neck, the skin too hot
for hair to stand on end
in the gaze of such a threat.
I kiss her
and it shows them
where to aim.

*

Cayla Garman is a poet from Pennsylvania and a graduate of Penn State Harrisburg. Her work has previously appeared in From the Fallout Shelter as the 2023 recipient of the Academy of American Poets Prize and in The Milk House.