First, I had had a thought so unnerving

I went cold all over, in the heat. What if I

love this man, whom I hardly know,

more than I’ve loved any other man, and at

once I was a water fountain,

at grammar school, in the hall, a         bubbler,

I was         bubblering,         I had turned into

a water-bearer who couldn’t bear but

        blubbered         her water with gulpy         blubbers

on a hot summer day. Years ago,

I had been a sudden desert fountain

most days, at old love’s fresh sudden end.

And now, here I am, again,

but not in my                 cherryskin         armor, again,

not with my                   cherry                 bow and juice-tipped

arrows and dried           cherry                 jerkin

and quiver, and              cherry                 scenthound—not that

aging                              cherry                 Artemis again, it feels

different, now, with this humorous curious

man, I feel as if we may be

the distilled fruit, the liquor itself, as if I’m

in the interior of new love’s

mouth, I am safe, under his tongue.

And under my own             tongue, look

who you see—look!, perfectly safe, it is he.

—Sharon Olds