Sometimes It Takes A Night ~ Bob Kesh

Before she stitched together her brassiere,

and before
she pulled on everything that counted,

back when she stood under the broken clocktower
          we played forgettable songs                
          and held in the darkness.

Before she lay on to her front,

and before
she held on to everything she wanted,

back when she ran around

          with every shadow covering
          her ass.

Back then,
we used to rent our lives like campsites.

But when she’d had enough
and lay on the parquet floor
with the soles of her feet blushed red with cold,
everyone else seemed to have been standing for too long.

And she moved her head back to see me behind her   
          crosslegged on a stool that couldn’t take my weight.

(Later they told us it was our eyes that did it.
That stopped everyone standing.) I was with her as if it were just us. As if everything else was lost, and our only safety was each other’s bodies. Then she was smiling. Not smiling but laughing. No sound but you could see it in her eyes and the tilt of her chin.           She looked at me and said, “More.” And can’t I deny, I looked at them and they all looked as if they meant to love her. And a girl said, “Let’s give her heaven!” And though she denied none of us           She remembered to           show her little boredoms           when she had them and she looked at me, the way she did when she wanted me to listen, and all the breaths sounded like a sea We hadn’t seen in years and she took me,           and quickened me to a sprint           with the first sigh and mercilessly limpened me with her second. Then she stood, and she felt like she did when she was young. Like the only thing love gave her was freedom.
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