The last time I saw Michael,
we were driving through garlic
fields when he turned down Ben Folds
& asked me to try molly with him sometime.
You can feel everything, he said,
Like every pore is a channel—
but my pores are wide
as subway tunnels & often I would rather board
them up. Is there a drug that can stop me
from weeping at the curtain drop
of every small town play?
It’s embarrassing, to be in love
with everything you see,
to open yourself like a blouse
to the world over & over.
Two weeks later, Michael
got caught, fifty counts over eight years—
his middle-school students, so many
Jane Does. I had no words for my grief
& suddenly I couldn’t stop
making apple pie—
That fall, I probably baked twenty,
peeling whole crates of honeycrisp, pink lady
& Granny Smith, lining up ranks
of unarmed naked fruit on my counter,
strips of shiny skin dropping to my floor.