"There's no such thing as bad whiskey or bad sex." Roland Flint
We were screamers that year.
Gina, the lady downstairs,
told me when we woke her and her truck-driving boyfriend,
she'd get angry with him about our shaking the house--
"Why can't you do that for me?"
1970, a year Reich would have envied.
Beethoven's Ninth in sex, loud, deaf to others,
Mike the nineteen-year-old cowboy from Teaneck,
Nights he didn't come five times he felt
pent up. For me,
it was the beginning of life in the body,
genesis, exodus from a dry marriage,
numbers and revelations.
Once, in a New Brunswick flophouse,
high noon, we sweated so hard the soaked sheets
slid off the plastic-covered
mattress and so did we. Wetness and the smell of sex
permeated the year like a rain forest.
How did it end? Tired.
In a frenzy of suspicion I read his diary--
I knew it! He'd cheated on me
with a woman from his office. She wore red gloves
he wrote, he came five times.
Now I'm older stats aren't the key.
Yet I hold to 1970, sex so good
my whole body and the next life and the next,
Even today I wear red gloves
as a tribute to that unknown woman
who took the next shift
and as a way of saying, thank you, Mike.
Causes Marilyn Kallet Supports
Southern Poverty Law Center, US Holocaust Memorial Museum, ACLU, Amnesty International, Save Darfur.