Captivation is
the way you held her hands

like rosary beads, and stained glass,
even though you say you don’t believe in Redemption.

You traded your Spanish steel wit
and passion fruit affections
for a trip south of the border
where romance is something you can only just afford---



and I remember your arm slinking slowly around her waist

as you said slowly, deviously, and none too gently,

things you apparently felt needed saying

while I drowned my self-righteous sorrows
in artificially-flavored soda---

And speaking of old-time romances,
those gray eyes hold no captive fixation
like her first kiss communions
and your sacramental wine---


you poured on the floor

and you snapped the fibers of the crucifix dangling around your neck

and danced on the cracked glass

where it lies, lack-luster, on the concrete.

And it’s a good thing
you don’t believe in Redemption.