Collision
It was not planned to spend a night,
the collision, unplanned as well,
sent your wife and my husband to various depths
of wounds and diagnostic beeps,
eventually we two were marshaled off.
Our foursome’s winey lunch had merely been
an easy way for friends unseen for years
to share the always changing news,
to estimate, respond, withdraw, affirm,
confess some new but universal flaw.
The collision left you with me,
or should I say left me with you,
unplanned but safe no longer
from a first attraction mutually caught
some several decades past.
At dinner we speculated on what food
the wounded were refusing in their rooms,
I said my spouse was lively and ambitious,
yours you said, was playful and unafraid.
We each expressed appreciation for our own.
We agreed we’d both been lucky but did not say
we wished to see each other soon again.
Why not? A tone unsought had stirred within,
had risen as a barrier to make us shy.
Of course we’d share the same motel.
Calm surface. Practical and adult.
Share a room? Two beds? Why not?
We said it would only be one night.
But my husband and your wife could not hear
our stilted talk as you turned the key.
I was aware of having in my mouth
too much to swallow
and it wasn’t wine or water from the tap.
You didn’t pay formalities with any words
you just undressed before me.
As once, long years ago arms reached for flesh,
we fell together now upon a bed,
held each other without words,
panting, afraid but strangely unafraid,
and beyond the threshold of turning back.
I was wordless until you said,
“Why are you crying?
Why is my shoulder wet with tears?”
“I don’t know,” and pulled wet hair across my face.
“I don’t know. It’s because I’m home.”
“Yes, home,” you said but with a difference
which I caught and must not let it go,
so dangerous was the edge to which each cell
of being had, with instincts linked not fled.
We lay stiller than a grave, backing off.
Then fell apart, two pillows for two heads,
breathed and let the long night slowly come.
“If we’d had more than that one night.”
“Even so, it was more than it has ever been again.”
“For you too? I wish I’d known.”
“For me that once. Never since.”
“If that was true why let Barker in?”
“Bark. His name was Bark. It was the time.
Our time. The time of friends with benefits.
I thought with anyone it would be so good.”
The dry clean room was silent.
On that other night the moon was not upon
the shelter we had found
but lit the water of the pool
where others played as they returned.
“You wouldn’t stay till morning.
If we had had just one whole night.”
“It was your birthday
your mother had given you that jacket.
We’d left it by the pool.”
“You’re right. When I saw you with Barker—”
“Bark.” “Whatever. I threw the jacket out.”
“You were jealous.” “Far more than that,
I felt betrayed. I’d adored so long.”
“And now you hated?”
“Not quite. I was sure I’d just been used.
I learned much later I had not.”
“I was seventeen. The depths to which we’d gone
were perhaps not normal. I ran away.
I hurled myself away from you.”
“I wish I’d understood.”
“Soon there was Gwen.” “Then Charles.
Your Charles, my Charley.”
“Prettier than me.” “I wouldn’t say.
You were beautiful. Character.”
“Two couples to which others wanted in.”
“From Charles and Charley we might have laughed us back.”
“The way remembering might laugh us back right now.”
“I wish you had not said it.
I’m going for a walk.”
“I’ll come too. Too bad the hospital
is too far to walk.” “It would have helped.”
“We could have stood and stared.”
“All night.” “The guard would say,
‘Look! Two love-sick spouses.’ ”
And would have been correct.”
“If he existed in the world we do.”
“Perhaps he did. He’ll never know.”
“He’ll never know the pain.”
“I fear again an awful grief.”
“But he doesn’t exist! Okay. Change of subject.”
“Whatever happened to Bark?”
“Barker? He’s a hospital administrator.”
“No! You mean he’s arranged this whole thing?”
“Yes, and he’s the guard.”
“No laughing. I can’t stand it.
Stop it. Stop.”
“Thank God we’re not back in that motel.”
“Sh-h-h, did you hear that?”
“No, I was laughing. Or was I thinking?”
“It was a collision.
Or a car hitting a tree.”
“Well, it was far away or I’d have heard.”
“There.” A sigh. “Someone’s driven away.”
And the night was very still.
No moon made mysteries of the tawdry scene,
the lack of trees, the rubbish replacing grass,
the long walk in the uncertain dark.
“Let’s go back.” “Yes. Take my hand.”
Two pillows for two heads. No sleep.
“You’ll always know I love you.”
“Yes, I’ll always know.
And you know I’ll always love you.”
“Was there anything wrong
with friends with benefits?”
“What’s the point of yes? It’s over now.
More Apollo. Less Dionysius.”
“We have Bacchus to back us.” “That’s good.”
“Very clean.” “Works well.” “I’m going to make it.
Will you?” “Yes. Yes my love. I’ll make it.”
Long sleepy pauses in the dark.
“The sadness will make us even better.”
“That’s what Chaucer said. Why should it?
But it will.” “I would never ask to suffer.”
“Me neither.” Room listening. Car passing.
“This isn’t ‘suffering.’ It’s knowledge we can’t escape.”
We sat. We lay and maybe drowsed.
Dawn had to come. Coffee in the hospital.
The nurses didn’t see the darkness in our eyes.
Our spouses did, the thing we couldn’t hide.