Issue |
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Sept |
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a poem by John Grey
LOVE AFTER THE ACCIDENT
You made love to me,
unaware of the accident.
My hands trembled
as much as they struggled
to excite you.
My heart thumped
like two of us naked
was a close call.
But you thought this was
nothing but two calm days
getting together
to make the night
romantic and sensual.
Extraordinary happenings, you figured,
required ordinary participants.
You weren't hugging me close
when the car crossed the double line,
was barreling toward me.
You weren't unbuttoning your shirt
when I swerved to miss it,
flew off the road,
slammed down into a ditch.
You weren't rubbing your thighs
against mine
when I crawled from the car,
gathered my splattered thoughts,
examined the damage to bones and vehicle.
I know it was unfair
but, for a time, I resented your indifference.
I'd rather have made love
to the people who stopped,
who called 911,
to the rescue workers,
to the cops and their whirring red sirens.
It took an orgasm
for me to realize
that, making love,
the other car's supposed to hit you
head on.
unaware of the accident.
My hands trembled
as much as they struggled
to excite you.
My heart thumped
like two of us naked
was a close call.
But you thought this was
nothing but two calm days
getting together
to make the night
romantic and sensual.
Extraordinary happenings, you figured,
required ordinary participants.
You weren't hugging me close
when the car crossed the double line,
was barreling toward me.
You weren't unbuttoning your shirt
when I swerved to miss it,
flew off the road,
slammed down into a ditch.
You weren't rubbing your thighs
against mine
when I crawled from the car,
gathered my splattered thoughts,
examined the damage to bones and vehicle.
I know it was unfair
but, for a time, I resented your indifference.
I'd rather have made love
to the people who stopped,
who called 911,
to the rescue workers,
to the cops and their whirring red sirens.
It took an orgasm
for me to realize
that, making love,
the other car's supposed to hit you
head on.