How Beautiful Was Our Sinning

During the moments before his coming,      
I tasted the saltiness of his      
wife’s tears. Did I pull away?      
No, my lips held firm and accepted      
his stolen offerings as a child might      
sip thirstily from a fountain    
on a hot afternoon.      
     
When I saw his daughter’s face,      
did I hide in horror?      
No. I cried out softly,      
but still rushed forward,      
breaking all that      
was in my path.    
     
Oh, but how beautiful was      
our sinning when we fell into the      
urgent ostinato dictated by human nature,      
pressing again and again in concert with imagined melodies,      
before slowing to a rubato that onlookers      
might have thought was regret.      
     
As our breathing settled,      
I knew we’d given too much,      
but still we pressed together      
as if our lives might end in the last      
pulses of our echoed music.      
     
Later while dressing, his eyes fell upon my breasts
with the longing of a child, but I looked away.
We were both guilty of destroying the
lives of those we loved.