SEX ED

Well-dressed, demure, jammed into thosepolitely arranged desks, it's hard to be serious, but we are. No one even parts lipsto acknowledge what used to drive us crazyin the back seats of cars, what kept us uphalf the night reliving the last slow dance,girl on her toes, guy bent at the kneesto press in against her.The instructors speak precisely aboutthe importance of our children knowing the facts,so surely none of us in our high heels and neck ties is going to admit how our first mistakeshave suddenly blossomed so tender and lovelywe've been forgiven a thousand times,a thousand times forgiven and repeated ourselves.But fingering the graffiti on this desk,I remember being braille to you, being readlike a steamy novel, and how those lessonsstayed with us, practical as driver's ed, those hoursof simulation behind the wheel of a parked car.The truth is I don't regret having studied with youthough I do feel inarticulate, like an athleteasked to speak in a room of kids, who has nothingto say except, "practice, practice."Once our daughter watched the cat in heatyowl and slither across the floor, and withoutlooking up asked, would that happen to her. Sometimesit isn't shame that makes us speechless. It's not regret that makes me linger at the curb watchingher toss back her yellow hair and yank openthe heavy doors to school.