orientation

For nearly a week, it was the lake, ovular and clear-bottomed, dotted
with small islands spreading west. I could see it peeking through the pines,
the gloss of it rippling in the early fall wind. Small waves slapping the dock
were like soft clearings of the throat: ahem, ahem, and in the dark,
with the moon blanked out by rain clouds, I could still tell where the trail ended
and the water began. Afternoons, my fingers wove a porous net
as I dipped and glided around the cove. Summer’s last mosquitoes
hovered like Harpies around my ears, but it was no use. I had already fused myself
to the strokes, made an arrow of my legs, found a rhythm in my lungs.
Even weightless, even groundless, I was certain I would never be lost again.

the bar

Because I told myself not to have that second drink, knowing it would blur
my courage, make me forget the history between us that had nailed the coffin
of our efforts shut for good, I am rigid on the stool, arms square
against the glass, sipping, sipping, like I’m counting old coins one by one.
You are so loose in your seat, catapulting your hand on my wrist
for emphasis, throwing your head back as you chuckle at some small story
in which I don’t quite belong. And I’m remembering the morning we kissed
for the first time, after that night at the bar where two martinis let us hurry
through niceties so that our knees could touch and our beginnings could begin.
The way our lips opened like the gate they were to let our tongues slip in.

Now, I clamp my teeth around the rim, tilt the glass for one last quaff,
and a drunken maraschino slides against my mouth, sweetheart-red,
stained saccharine. It’s time to go, your clutch empty, my own laugh
flatlining, and whatever still breathing between us as good as lost or dead.
We’re like a legless insect, making turn after turn but spinning, futile,
into the same tiny radius. I try to knot the cherry stem but again
the ends won’t thread, and I wonder how long it will
take us to stop meeting like this, how many more folds the napkin
has left in it. When we say goodbye, the hug is chaste, our touch threadbare.
Outside, it’s just begun to rain, and a heavy scent - like whiskey - fills the air.

sting

The first thought is of the creature that coiled itself into her bra
as she sailed down the Norwottuck Trail on an afternoon blissfully free
of obligation. The sting was not immediate, but she knew it would come.
The poor thing flailed and fought its way out with no success.
By the time she stopped the bike, the agitation had mutated
to attack. The wasp thing stung her by the heart and initially,
it was just that - a sting, a pointed, poignant arrow at her skin.
But hours later an ache had spread to the left and right of the mark
as the poison leaked deep, and to fight it she thrust her feet
more vigorously into the task of pedaling,
as if distance would keep her ahead of the pain.
But the further she went, the larger the bite swelled,
a red and raw reminder.
There was a price to pay for letting go.
The wasp escaped, then died behind her.