Camping

      by Kathryn Jacobs


I greet you like an unzipped sleeping bag,
unpacked, no secrets, sprawling: still amazed.
You smile to fill the tent, and fall on me –
and make the sky go dim, that easily.

I don’t believe in “easy;” never did.
The walls slope in above us, though. My toes
bisect the shadows, pointing out like rays
two less-than empty corners (strewn with clothes)
while we lie in the middle, spread out square,

embracing cautiously. One tent away,
a cough disturbs the evening. Carefully:
they’ll hear us. Still, you touch me. It’s a game –
how wicked can we both be, silently.

So easy, then and after. While we morph,
asleep at last in zip-lock, tucked away,
lost in our own becoming.