First she heard the clatter
of his boots on the porch,
feet and legs sturdy in their haste
to fling his body to her room.
The cranky doorknob jammed
then spun and turned and he rushed in
breathless from wanting and waiting.
Half-dressed by now, he leaned above her
touching arms and neck.
She heard every sound:
dust sighing from webs,
light fingering thin curtains,
rain sliding from the roof in silver yarns.
His face was hard to read—
perhaps she wasn’t apt at reading indiscretion.
There, on a couch in a shadowed room,
she, an unbeliever, watched herself perform,
and found that she believed again in sin.
—from Rattle #22, Winter 2004