Bed

::

“Well, we’re not sixteen anymore,” I say softly.

::

“Funny you should say that . . . ”

and you begin

talking memory, as if we were

in fact sixteen,

mistaking me for some distant

virginal mist

rising off female skin

like fog off a lake.

“I didn’t know you then,”

I reply. “I’m your wife

now—remember?

Happy also to be

your mistress, if you’d like.”

We’re laughing now,

under the covers,

his face near

my thighs. He comes up

for air, he’s a conspirator:

“Margaret likes that, too.”

::

Making love takes longer.

We make reservations

as if for dinner out.

Afternoons for delight,

bed? or sofa?

Well, isn’t the body

a space-time event?

Isn’t it a river,

or the color of the ridge

seen through winter woods

at four, when sun

spills gold on it, then

russet and purple,

dun and dusk?

::

“Your skin,” you murmur,

“soft—here, feel . . .

so beautiful. It’s so beautiful.

Here and now, snow

falling outside, and we’re

warm, inside each other. . . .

Have we ever done this before?”