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.