The Innocent Pleiades

It wasn’t me, but you, that night;

your hand that crawled across her knee,

drawing back the shadow of her skirt

to expose the pale moon flesh of her thigh.

I can feel her skin as if I wore 

your fingers like a glove; using their tips
to trace her freckle constellations.

It was your name, not mine, embossed on the card

that paid for the brisket, the burgundy, the creme brulee;

I can feel the napkin patting the corners of your mouth,
can feel the pen in your fingers as you sign the check,

can feel the the wheel in your grip

as the waxed Toyota slides between the conifers.

Just like you, I know those woods 
like the back of my hand. They’re magical at night, although

you can only steal glimpses of the stars

tangled in the branches, if it's clear,

or the eyes of some animal that flash in the headlights

then quickly wink out, like cosmic embers snuffed

by their rush through the stratosphere.

I’ve noticed how poor the reception is out here,

between the mountains, far from the towers,
spots kept secret even from the satellites.

It was your name that she howled that night

...yet I’m the one they came for

when they found the car, I'm the one

whose swatch of hair they snipped.

As you take the stand, 
I think of her parted lips.

I'm surprised to hear you read my lines

as if you had written them yourself

and there's a rushing in my ears

and once again I see those beads of light

start to flash across my eyes
like holes ripped with a knife

in the blindfold of the sky