after Marie Howe
It was like the first time
your hand touches a married
man’s thigh; or when you lean
over the velvet rope, right
before you touch the painting;
or the moment you slip
the lipstick from the shelf
to your purse; when you cover
your crying child’s mouth
and say Shut up; it was the moment
you join your husband’s enemy
on the ledge while he smokes,
and you place your hand
at his back, then push.
Originally published in RHINO.
Winner of an Illinois Arts Council Literary Award.