for M.

During our entrée of foie gras with redwine-poached seckel
pear and onion marmalade, I notice the cobblestones in your
eyes. Already your history is a deep swell at my door. I should
turn out the lights; pretend I’m not home. But how can I not be
drawn to the lines in your forehead. Each one reminding me
of the small bath towels folded into animal shapes then left on
my pillow on a cruise I once took to Mexico.

It’s the cruelties that make you beautiful.

Later in your bedroom, with your head on my chest, you tell me
of the three one-night-stands you had just to get back at your
husband.

“I’ve never been touched like this before,” you say.

As your words dissolve into the hunger of the room,
I imagine you before all this, as a child swinging in a
tire suspended from a tree. You’re wearing your favorite
blue dress and smiling down at your best friend, while the
sun’s persistent rays elbow aside the leaves
for ownership of the earth.