One Night
by Janice Krasselt Tatter


Saturday night. Another party.
Smoking and drinking beer.
Jackson Browne's poetry and music.
Like a phantom a man emerged
and kissed me full on my lips
and because I was lonely,
I kissed him back, a kiss
long and deep as if I knew him.
As the room faded, the music
vague and distant, we were suddenly
a couple totally engaged in each other,
rushing towards something
we couldn't abandon, his hands
deft and alluring.
We left.

When we meet some twenty years
later, I feel those moments again,
that night in my bedroom
without sleep. His hair is still dark,
his face fuller and those lips--
those lips--bring it all back full face.
He kisses me and I kiss back.
Though I'm not lonely, I wonder
why we were never more than one night,
why other men captured my heart
with days and nights as full
as the whole moon that bleached the darkness.
I'm not surprised when I feel his hand
stroking, moving up my thigh.






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