Polarity

          Dear Sir,

You make betrayal seem easy. So it was, you said once

                    and by way of demonstration,

          lifted the lid of your pocket compass and waited

for the frictionless bearing to find its direction. But,

                    what to say about inertia tonight, when

                              the house is dark, there are fruit flies

          in the sink and through the window, I am watching

                    the miles we biked through third world

countries, where bandits and a limited knowledge

          of the language were props

in our drama: you, always on the verge of some conversion,

                    like a dog with its head flung out the window

          on the freeway; me, always asking for directions,

shredding a red napkin on the Malecón in Puerto Vallarta.

                    One moment, I’m water from the deepest

                              oasis in your canteen; the next,

          I’m warm champagne slurped through a straw somewhere

                    south of Palm Springs, where you are building

a trebuchet to smash a luxury car on prime-time air space,

          because you wanted adventure,

and didn’t I give you suicide pacts and war games, rough sex

                    in airplanes, hummingbirds palpitating

          in the trees? You said, is that all, darling?

These are the stories we invent when the North Star

                    turns out to be a Cold War satellite. So, tell me

                              this is rapture—the mind’s needle

          swinging toward the next summit. Tell me, dear Sir,

                    because the compass needle is shot and it’s

raining here. Please send a body bag.

          Sleepless tonight, I feel the magnet

behind my eyes, my mind tugging toward the pole of you.

                    Like the tongue that tests the metal bar

of a meat freezer, I am learning the taste of my own blood.