Rapture, The

American Poetry Review, The, Jul/Aug 1997 by Sadoff, Ira

The tongue wagging, mumbling and moaning,

calling out, shouting instructions, legs buckling, scalding

where the flesh grinds against flesh, the veil

of seduction dropped, the quick and shallow breathing

(outside, truck tires whistling, a child on a bike,

but muffled, as if the gagged world were boiled down

to liquid, capped, pharmaceutical, a store

where sickness is soothed), then the acquired things:

this borrowed from what she did with someone else,

that from what he once saw, this from magazines,

the once shamed and detonated flesh now truculent

and delectable, then the seizure, the moment

nothing more than rapid eye movement,

mere transparency, followed by declarations

and a snail-like withdrawal, the dreaded afterwards,

the schism and the questions, the heart

beginning to stutter and calm, space coming back

into focus, coming back too quickly:

the night table, the book, the clock,

everything that refuses to change pulsing with solidity.

Then it's back: the anonymous clutter of the avenue,

ravenous looks reflected in every storefront

so nothing's left but a flash of body part,

a sensation dimly lit, scored like film and fluttering.