Holy Holy

by Maureen Alsop

On a street of unknown location, he fingered
the buttons of my jagged blouse. Not just anyone’s

blouse, but mine, alone in that hazy summer—
his undreamed mouth slapped hard to my lips—fresh

as a knife. I did not lose my body wrapped in its blindness
when he entered me. But fumbling flesh is always

imprecise. I could only stay focused
on a few clouds at a time. Reader, try thinking of an orange sky

splattered with starlings as a train knuckles through
oleander deserts. Try thinking anywhere

else. If you want a simpler answer, I could say
as if even the momentary
does not happen. I circle my own tracks, still can’t find

the heavens. Now I lie beside my husband, held
within the closed light of winter’s coddled room

and hear silence thicken.