John Repp
One night in three the screams
seized me awake--door-slam,
glass-shatter, him hitting
her hitting him hitting
the wall I pressed my ear
to and seethed, or gave in,
watched the arc-light blare on
the glassine pool-skin she
split with such grace once they
had stopped and done what they
did afterward. Gorgeous
red hair they had. I think
that's how it went. I think
the manager--Alice?
Angela? Ann?--told them
to stop. We all complained.
"Get me high," Ann said once,
checking for the roaches
I hadn't complained of.
Contemplating her thighs,
the drop of freckles there,
the way her mouth pulled up
on each end, I wanted
what the husband hadn't
for months, or so she said.
I've heard pheromones do
the trick. What happens in
love more often than not
undoes it. I played hoops
with the redhead sometimes.
He could move. I fed him
backdoor passes and he
scored, pointed a praising
finger at me. Thirty
years ago you didn't
call the cops to stop what
love or what passed for it
couldn't. No one there did,
anyway, not that I
recall. "You're a good man,"
said Ann when I nodded
no to everything.
Each memory its own
chemical arrangement,
one permanently changed
spot in the brain. All we've
done molecular lock
with mercurial key,
or so I read somewhere.
Copyright (c) 2004 by John Repp
This poem was first published in NEW LETTERS, appeared in Mr. Repp's chapbook THINGS WORK OUT (Palanquin Press, 1998), and also appears in his new book, THE FERTILE CRESCENT, due out next month from Cherry Grove Collections (www.cherry-grove.com).