take your clothes off

When he speaks I am allowed to look at him.
Let this perfect conjecture slide over (all over)
the thought reaching out to my loud now--

I want to--

but find no way to make my hands
natural, accidental. I try to make his skin
a chaste idea. But even his gloves, made from slaughtered
goats, their pliable kid leather become a bias-cut
slip, myelin sheath, the impulse jumps
node-to-node, too fast for capture.

The body.

Less, less real. I am aware of wanting
to look at him. In the long space
in which others speak I cannot look at him.

take your clothes off

And I do. In dream after dream, except
last night when I'm running a long way
in the rain and, basketball in one hand, he
stands watching. And when he watches--
I run and run, do not wake up
but that--(there,) that, that, that: rain
at my window, my husband in my bed.

[Rachel Zucker, 'Axon, Dendrite, Rain', from The Bad Wife Handbook]