I didn’t know he was married,
didn’t know I wasn’t the only one
who believed he had landed
in my life like an out-of-season
blue heron, singular and sunlit
at the edge of a lake, a figure
in a woodblock print,
drawing the eye as if he were
the source of everything.
And it seemed that way—
that all the light I had given up
when my own husband left
had been gathered and saved
by this new man who gazed at me
so long I believed he returned
that light and shone it upon
the world as if in a still life,
the tips of the hickory leaves lit
brilliantly yellow, the maples
stunned orange or red, evergreens
greener than memory. So
when he took me from my misery
to the bed I thought was his alone
I gave up every secret, let him unharness
every protection. Months would pass
before you discovered my presence,
and I yours. Like some fish
rising to the surface to see
the sky no longer distorted
through the rippled water,
you are a woman like me
who did not yet know
how beyond that surface
a man could lift you
out of your element
and eat you alive.