I know what happened at the bar:
me and your pal Jake from college
on stools, sipping tall boys, you smiling
between us, the dutiful wife, rubbing

the notches in my spine. I know
he was scribbling cave paintings
onto your thigh, tingles crackling
under your skin, shorter
than summer in Alaska. I know

later at home, you poured 
three thick fingers of cognac,
so he was too boozed to drive,
had to crash on the pullout.

I know you hurried me into the Jacuzzi
of your mouth, just to drowsy me,
that after I exploded, you padded down,
with my bouquet on your breath,
and held open your butterfly wings.

I know his crushed pearls were drying
on your skin, when you tiptoed in
with dawn, the reverb of his olive fingers
still sprinting through your hair.