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.