We were listening
to the Sons of God
when Marsha lifted her
skirt and said climb
inside. I went willingly,
a sheep, sheepish
and yet full of profound
breathing. Later,
Marsha said, I'm tired
of this boiling pot.
I noodled. I read Marsha
like a tea leaf. It's what
keeps her so close
to me, her doors always
ajar where butterflies
shatter their splendor.
When the record
was over I asked Marsha
if she read the Russians.
I had seen something
like steppes and I didn't want
to stumble. Outside
Kenny kept blowing his
horn. We knew he had
a new rhino but we didn't
realize the date. Marsha,
I write this now seven
years later. I lie fallow
and you tell me that the
truth will set my fee.
Still, I think of your face,
its blister of life,
and I quail. Even now, here
in the soup mines.


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