March 5, 2007

  • One-Night Stand

    by Kathleen Lake

    He's a kid: Goofy. Baggy
    clothes, glasses
    tipping, ponytail slipping
    out of its band, as if it never meant
    to be there, arms and legs not committing
    to being anywhere. How did he get here?
    He interrupts me, shrugs and giggles, shirttail
    untucked, dawdles at my door
    till I let him in.
    But when his clothes come off, so does
    all that. Skin phosphorescent with pure
    intention, eyes with the sheen of
    light on water, he holds
    to what he wants, and he wants
    me, the way summer wants
    to come again, the way the Terminator wants
    Linda Hamilton dead.
    Well.
    Me, I think a man, just for being
    secretly and shockingly
    beautiful, should get what he wants, so I serve myself up,
    a half-moon of melon curving
    on the cool white plate of my bed.
    And oh, how his fingers
    twist in my hair. How he tells me my own name
    so I'll never forget.
    And when he goes out later, half
    slip, half swagger, back to the offhand,
    half-assed world, I sit here, still buzzy,
    horny, humming. Next door some bluesy woman croons
    that if she can't have love, she'll die. I wonder:
    did I just get loved,
    or diminished? And if I peel off my last
    apology, can I stand to be this
    awake,
    alone,
    alive?