Confidence spread

over the podium

as she spilled her words

from The Gravity Soundtrack.

We met there — a writer’s guild event,

not on-line staged by e-harmony

or match.com.

Some drinks

are darn strong to swallow —

burn all the way down

but damn you know

you’ve had a taste

of something different.

She’s like that

still you wrapped your hand

around her and take a swig.

Subtle how she whispers

from behind sepia cover

“resist gravity.”

I take her advice — no sags

in my life.  For now, at Wild Dunes

I chased her weightless life-style.

We rolled

in each other’s sweat

and sand settles like grit

between our toes and our skin

fires red-raw where we carelessly

miss rubbing on the number 30.

Be wary of pretending you live

in spring when your bones

gather autumn leaves. Avoid

secret liaisons with a “scared

fatherless young poet who feels

like veal*”

and fears a Jumbotron

will replay episodes

of her teenage embarrassments

in high definition before

a crowed stadium.

I’m old, and wear as quickly as a

gold-plated watchband.  Scents from

Bougainvillea over stimulate

my dreams and spur urges

I’m unable to meet.

So bring me lavender

and words from Mary Oliver,

settle comfort around me

with lingo from my era.

Erin Keane’s passion; her fervor

rocks a world I missed.

My “great depression” birthday

came too soon.

• A word Erin Keane used to describe herself.

____________________________________________

I had an affair

with Mary.

I  was seduced

in Barnes & Noble,

lured to the  poetry section

next to coffee and pastries.

I touched her Blue Iris,

fondled her Red  Bird

and recounted why

she wakes early.

She looked better than I remembered

in a brown jacket

with a striking bear

emblem on the front.

She took me to her tent

near Truro

and told me of turtles, toads,

hermit crabs,

and her fear

of carrying a small snake

to the garden.

I spilled my passion

beside her.

Under her cover

she shared phrases,

moles, verbs,

and curves

of sweet new perceptions.

We were intimate beyond belief.

Her verbal kisses

brought sweat to my palms.

I became high, hallucinating

on Mary

my drug of choice.

I had an affair

with Mary Oliver.

William A. Poppen is retired and spends most of his time writing poetry, taking photographs, hiking, biking and traveling with his wife, Yvonne.  His photos have been published on-line in The Hiss Quarterly and poems have appeared on-line in Chanterelle’s Notebook, The Cat’s Meow for Writers & Readers, and Symbiotic Poetry.  Written works have been in The Creative Writer, 2008, GotPoetry Anthology and New Millennium Writings (2007-08).