The Lovers

Despondent from beatings and burglaries, Hans and Emma Kable, close to eighty, took their own lives, Bronx, New York.

Last night
they made love
a new way:
her skirt draped
across the bed,
the delicate
white blouse
beside his suit,
the red striped tie
laid neat.
Being caught
there is no
embarrassment.
The note won’t tell
what they whispered
in their ritual
to ease each other
to the bright breaking
of blood
as on the first night.
After fifty years
there was no need
to be naked
to be assured
by a hair pelt
touched
into heart grain.
Last night it was
a new position:
their love binding
their necks
to doorknobs,
razors
at their wrists
releasing
one another
to supreme escape.
Far away
in the Arctic
the aged
wander snowdeep
to the polar jaw.
In Africa
they seek uplands
and await
a predatory kiss.
Here in America
they are left behind
in cities
to make love.
For them
there is no
embarrassment.