Since I sat on Gary Stamps'
skinny lap and we pressed
our lips together. His were
chapped, mine
motionless and soft,
receiving the impression of the seal.
We counted the seconds--one
hundred, two hundred, five…
like flagpole sitters in the
depression, learning
to bear this rapture.
I loved them all--the tanned
boys on the beach,
our bodies salty and tangled
like kelp drying in the sun.
In their cars, I offered my
breasts,
extravagant gifts in black
lace wrapping.
In their rooms, I astonished
them, shedding my clothes
like a tree that drops its
flaming leaves in a single gust.
I loved how close they crept,
young deer
who come right up on the
porch and into the house,
nibbling yellow roses from a
vase.
I loved their uncomplicated
hunger.
So when my husband left,
dividing
us like a perfect part down
the center
of a scalp, I couldn't bear
it.
I followed him begging
like that woman who holds out
her hand
in the parking lot, trailing
you to your car
with her complicated story of
bus fare, stolen
wallet, job interview … And
maybe
this is the consequence of
rapture,
the way we cling even to its carapace.