We find ourselves by the river.
The far side is stone—
customs house, the city gate—
our side grassy with a gravel walk.
We are alone. There is no moon.
A street lamp sends dim shadows
to us, to the river—a gurgle
of black and silver swirling
past the bulwark stones.
I find mucus deep in my throat,
and though you hate this,
form an O with my lips
and blow, toss it
far onto the water where it bobs,
a shining dot running down. I wager
tomorrow, and tonight you’re game.
You search deep and toss.
But saliva sprays
and dribbles down your chin
and we burst
with laughter. It is women’s
singular failing, I say. You agree,
then remind me of my own.
