You elbow me with your corduroy jacket
when a box chock-full of antique marbles comes up.
I can't hear your whispers above the auctioneer's racket.
The clipped speech of the auctioneer cracked
me up when you impersonated him in bed. Like a wild, thick mop
I soak up every copper smell from your corduroy jacket.
In two days, I will drive you to the airport, packed
with other couples pressed tightly at the top
of the escalator. Lines sear my cheek from your corduroy jacket
when we hug—then a quick kiss good-bye tacked
on at the end. I'll finger the rim on the paper coffee cup
you leave in my car. When I hear your name I can't forget
how your long torso pressed against my bare back,
bluish in this early light. Your fingers shot into me, popped
my spine into a wicked arch. There is no lack
of how it haunts me still—what I bid—lost, sacked
and wrapped for other girls. I should have looked up
to see who else was bidding, but I studied the folds in your jacket.
My limit is spent, loud and certain as the auctioneer's racket.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem