Steve Orlen
“What year did we first make love?” he asks.
“Thirty-seven. That awful motel, in Illinois,”
She says. Snow falling and falling, and the bed
Taking them in as though expecting them.
“It couldn’t be,” he says. “It was thirty-eight,
Our honeymoon. Outside that town –
I can never remember the name.” Though
Even now he can see her, in the mirror, then
In the gray late afternoon light
From the window. She was changing for dinner.
“I saw you naked for the first time.”
“I think I’d remember that,” she says.
“It was outside Wheaton, Illinois. I’m sure.”
And before they got married, in a narrow bed.
She was terrified, What am I supposed to do first?
“No. I’m positive,” he says. “The war was on,
So that had to be later, and not Wheaton, but
Wrightstown, and yes, the bed was terrible.”
Out the window, the dark where the ghosts
Gather and float in a wind of their own making.
If they’re dead, why are they still restless,
Wavering and merging, parting again?
“You’re right!” she says. “Now I remember.”
She leans across the pillow and kisses him
Lightly on the mouth. “And the town was Okemo.”
What had been lost has been regained. The snow,
Already deep, still falling. What choice
But to pull over? A bed so narrow
What else could they do but make love?