Do you remember the look in his eyes
the first time he came in you?
Of course not. His eyes were closed,
buried in your shoulder, closed
just like yours were, and anyway,
it was dark in the car after midnight.
Later you looked, watched for the signs
of his impending orgasm deep inside
fantasies, remembrances of infidelities,
hoping it would be your turn again.
And he remembers
the infidelity, the speed of its arc
like the arching of her body
on a Sunday afternoon
when the apartment was theirs,
yes, turning it in his fingers,
revisiting it often,
trying to figure out
what he had almost done
to the future.
Lennart Lundh is a poet, short-fictionist, historian, and photographer. His work has appeared internationally since 1965.