We Kept What We Did
We kept what we did in the dark,
in the dark, not to embarrass
anyone, or show them their lack.
Some people never have this,
we’d say, finding each other
so late in our lives, wishing
for them what we so surely had.
We did what we did in the dark,
in joy too bright to show.
I thought we made a bond,
and only death would break it.
We kept what we did
in the dark, until we became
the dark—humor, loyalty,
kindness, sense, irrelevant.
Weren’t we rarer, more knowing,
more passionate than anyone else
around? The dark held us close
in a cloak so close-woven
light took its time getting through.
All This Tenderness
A scent strong as woodsmoke but sweet—
though nothing near was blooming—
came through the window open
to this day that found us together.
The apple blossoms must have just
opened on trees that until then
stayed hidden: lost orchards’ evidence,
or upstarts sprung from seeds
birds have scattered along the stone walls.
When we first touched, all I could think
was: Where does all this tenderness
come from? and racked my brain
and books to know where those lines
came from. Finally, in old drafts,
where I’d tried to turn Russian poems
into my awkward English, I found
it was Mandelstam—always
finding tenderness, perennially
in love—who made a moment eternal.
At a Time of Our Lives
At a time of our lives when the only hands
we can expect to touch us this gently
will be wearing latex gloves,
the only faces bending near
will wear the controlled alarm of EMTs,
the masks of surgeons, the practiced
concern of nurses—nothing to do
with love—-our familiar bodies
surprise us, or a force beyond body,
of course beyond reason, wanting touch
so much it ignores the cliche’
that only the perfect can know
attraction: not those with flesh
that’s marred and substantial,
well able to please. Flesh that isn’t
old; for both of us now, it’s new.
The technician in the ER said softly,
trying to attach the heart monitors,
You’re so hairy, I’m not sure
this will stick, but I thought
it didn’t matter how intimately
they handled you, my love
had covered, would cover
you, before and after them.
Where Are We Going
Driving to the party, so absorbed
in each other we hadn’t looked
at a map, he asked, Where
are we going? and we laughed
at the obvious double meaning —
embarked, I thought, on a journey
only our own ends would end.
Driving back, after he’d made himself
simple, affable, telling corny jokes
to my friends, who for my sake
indulged him, he turned off the ignition
and didn’t move. Then came:
If I show what I’m really like,
no one will ever love me. And
I thought, How bad could that
be? and said, euphoric, Try me,
hurtling to the ROAD CLOSED sign,
not knowing he’d just given fair warning.
