Molly Was Not Her Name

In those days I was neutral about woods.
I’d walk through them, sometimes enjoy,
to get to nowhere, really, now I recall.

I was quiet back then,
and so had a place in any crowd
tolerating a little mundane mystery.
After all, I could go off, anytime,
possibly? and funny enough when drunk
to keep around.

None of it was important
except I can tell you about one night
when some of us were nearly drunk
near the edge of the woods,
and still drinking, a lenient night,
and Molly was drinking with us.

Molly sounds right here, but that wasn’t her name.
I’ve forgotten her name.

Molly went off to the woods with a guy,
once in a while. Someone would be talking
and joking and she’d lean on him. Pretty soon
they’d be alone together right in front of us.
Then the woods. She was pretty quiet too;

we were quiet together that night.
I’d love to say there was a full moon
and just enough space between some branches
to show it. But I never looked up.

The darkness made me feel for Molly’s eyes,
and her lips; her eyes were everywhere,
lips revealed by yielding pressures.
On the pine needles.
The spells of her slow hands.

I used to drink every night, with a bunch of guys –
these guys, those guys – here and there.
Some understand too well; some will never at all.
I want to leave those scenes sketchy,
for all of us. But I can tell you

that her long dark hair was a tickle of wind
through my fingers, her eyelashes trailed
my hot cheek, and I strained over Molly
as I fucked her, holding her bottom up.
Thrusts brought waves we rode
until she called me down and against her,
and I plunged a grunted yes.
We knew the world within us, moved
together to split it open, and we did.

We talked later, and I don’t remember
any of it. Sat on a log and killed time.
That’s what it felt like, after the woods.
The next time I saw Molly she might as well
have been Pat or Lori. And the time after that,
and the time …. But that doesn’t diminish it
now, even as I ungracefully chip
to sculpt some marble of what I am.

We might drink, or fuck,
because we like how it it is
always becoming, always turning.
A dark turned to light,
glimmers of redemption reflected
off our shaking bodies.
We find we are not who we are.
This is never diminished.

© 2003 John E. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

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