A Bad Idea


She said it was a
bad idea, sure to lead to sorrow.
A choice of lifestyle, she said,
a half-life,
boys in your bed.
Others might not tolerate,
grandchildren erased,
not ashamed,
but please don’t
tell anyone.

So long as I had
someone concrete,
I had a contradiction, a public vindication –
meanwhile he longed to stray.

I knew it was a
bad idea,
a baby born
as marriage glue.
Every anniversary was agitation,
an escape made from
and never to.
Men lured him with foreign tongues.
So we stained the marital bed,
exchanged thread
for wire and
soon were through.

I lay prone
before his wants,
frustrated him with accommodation.
It was a bad idea, a mistake.

I knew it was a
bad idea,
but I touched him anyway.
A blank expanse of sleeping back, newly strange.
I stroked him with
eyelids bunched:
he made tiny movements
into my arms.
The sex was not really there,
invisible –
it might have been
anyone at all.
It was a bad idea, a mistake.