You drove your terror to her house.
You’d found it, something, in your breast.
Hurrying, you flung yourself
across her bed, unbuttoned your blouse,
reached for her hand and stared into space,
slowly guiding her fingertips
to where you found it. Here? Yes.
You hadn’t told your husband yet.
Now you turned to read her face.
She knew your stories, you knew hers.
You knew that she’d lived through it once.
That’s what you’d tell him if he asked
why someone else, why not him first.
You found it, something, in your breast,
your skin still damp as you got dressed
and drove your terror to her house.
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