The one who drove a green MG that smelled
of beach sweat and my perfume. The one who lost
his voice for a year. The two that became ministers.
The one who cheated on me and had the nerve
to be outraged when I cheated on him. The one
I tried to kill with my own hands in a dream.
The one who stole my underwear
for his collection. The one who taught
me to make cornbread. The one who left me
for the hula dancer. The one who cried with me
outside the daycare the morning of our divorce.
The one with long red hair who played the
saxophone all morning in bed. The one who complained
of my cruelty on his late night radio show. The one who
lent me his daughter until I had one of my own.
The one who left notes for me when it was over,
dozens of them all over my apartment, the last
found the following winter in the toe of a boot.
And then the one whose car became a shiny, black X-rated
movie when we climbed into it, who can tell
time without looking at a clock, whose dolphin-velvet
skin draws my touch night after summer night,
who pulls me to his furnace heart year after
shivering year, and still laughs after we make love
like a well-fed Viking, his bridegroom voice as ageless
as his hand on my ageless thigh.