Married, And

Married, and the door to her office
locked from the inside, a wooden
door with faces spiraled into the grain.

And a Sunday, and our hands,
our mouths, our hands and tongues,
the air-conditioner’s low hum,

a strip of tissue paper tied to the vent
squiggling its red line. And our tongues.
Married, and her son’s 5x7 on her desk,

aluminum bat propped and sun-dazzled
on his shoulder, eyes blindfolded
by the cap’s shadow. And her blouse

flayed open, my hands, her lavender
bra, my hands. Married, and her husband
somewhere over the Mediterranean,

eyes on a magazine or shut, the plane’s
oval windows tinted with evening.
And the dark waves below.

And the quick bottlenose dolphins
sashaying in the water, the frequency
of their clicks disrupting the sonar.