The way George Michael sang it,
even I, an apostate, believed.
With every sway of his denimed hips,
steel-toed boots tapping away
against the shrine of the jukebox,
gold cross earring glittering against
the ragged shadow of his jaw,
I fell further into faith. If you
were a teenaged girl growing up
in the 80s, you fell too, I guarantee it.
In high school, I had a friend
who seduced our middle-aged
Chemistry teacher to the tune
of “Father Figure” in his backyard
one summer afternoon. I remember
her telling me how his fingers felt
as he rubbed sunscreen over her half-
naked body, lingering just there
at the edge of her bikini, before falling
headlong into faith himself. Later,
after he’d been fired, she played
“One More Try” over and over,
as if the past were a blackboard
she could erase. It’s almost
faded now, a track on the mix-
tape of someone else’s youth. Still,
sometimes when the body hears
the memory of that music, it’s holy.