[I have added the last two parts to this poem. The song lyrics are not mine. Please tell me what you think.]
We drove here in your mother's station wagon,
listening to the old mix tapes
I had sent you, once, in the mail.
You sang along absentmindedly
as you counted raindrops on the window.
Forgotten words came floating up
with two strums
or a snare.
You traced the fleeing rain, and sang:
Someone told me long ago
There's a calm before the storm
I know
It's been coming for some time
The road was but a crumbled path,
Pine trees whispered through the windows.
I glanced at your neck;
it was smooth as fresh fallen snow,
but your cheek was trampled, worn.
Water had eroded your landscape.
The roads were frozen as we drove to Juneau, Alaska.
II.
“It’s nice,” you said, overlooking
The tumultuous black sea.
The dark iron hulls of ships
Appeared through the fog, like
a bad memory; a secret. I held your loose
cold hand.
The inn was warm, close. When the
keeper smiled at us you briskly signed your name,
then took the luggage. I asked for some wine,
and followed you to our room.
You had unpacked your bag. You turned your bare
back to me, saying, “Help me,”
and I zipped your blue dress,
smelling your hair.
My hands rested on your shoulders,
And you gripped with all your fingers.
III.
We lie naked side by side on the bed because
the bear skin revolted you when I proposed
we make love on it;
Yet even on proper sheets,
you remain revolted.
The town is sleeping. It is blinding midnight.
You stand up and pull the curtains aside,
exposing your breast to the empty town.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” you say,
watching dogs sniff snowmobiles,
but say nothing. Snowflakes dance past
your face, mottle your white skin.
Your naked figure is frozen in place.
“Don’t,” I say.
“Please don’t.”
