This poem appeared in Northwest Review and later, in Verse Daily.


He took me to the new world. He wanted privacy.
Perhaps he didn’t want people fighting over the exact spot.
It is near Akron, where cherry trees bloomed wild.

He was a curious sight, at first just a silhouette,
a driver in a luxury car commercial,
and he spoke like an anchorman.
I was surprised he had hands. But he did.

He arrived like a two-year-old running in a flock of feeding pigeons.
There was this phenomenal rising,
of rye grass, of seeds, of the sound of spring peepers.
The sun turned glamorous, like overhead lights
on a transatlantic flight.

I can give approximations:
Defibrillation by sudden starlight.
Veins on the petals of a trillium.
Rolling in hot laundry.

It was mostly by talking.
Not flattery, not steaminess.
Talk of tenderness and honor, courage
and love that grows from root to highest air.

Holy orgasm sounds like sunrise.
I remember how his head tilted a bit,
and he smiled, and he was precise,
the choir director cutting off a note,
and smiling again.

I still see him. If I drive along next to railroad tracks,
on sunny days,
the threading light traveling with me
is my Beloved.


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