One Night Stand
The students in the class do not identify as writers.
They think, perhaps, a Latin American Literature course
might be easy credit.
The last night of class, he dismisses the disillusioned faces early
and reads to me his new poems for his new book.
The light from his laptop is better than porn.
I leer at his naked words as we huddle over the small screen,
our knees almost touching,
The scent of his body, like new lacquer on fine wood.
The texture of his auburn skin like wall paper in a room I've never noticed before.
He shows me a part of his poem that reminds him of a poem of my own:
An instant's intercourse in a bed of language.
The satin sheet of his phrase sliding over my own.
I become aware of many things:
his breath tickling my neck
velvet in his voice
blood pumping through veins in my thighs
my pinky nail digging hard into the palm of my hand
my toes curling stiffly inside my black boots
the various directions the dark hairs grow from his scalp
the likely impatience of the man in a car outside who is waiting to pick me up
the clock's hands ticking away the extra minutes
the wife who waits in bed for the man reading his poems to me…
That, though we might shake hands at a reading one day,
we will never be this close again.