By Jay Rubin

—San Diego State, 1981

Those nights you phoned

The moon posed nude among the stars

The sky a block of black ice


I parked outside your trailer door

Freckled breasts and sour breath

Greeted me with vodka teeth


In bed, your ankles hooked my knees

Each open eye a blue-green sea

A crashing tide upon the beach


And leaving you each night a stone

A string of shells along your sheets

I knew no rope would rescue you


I grabbed my coat, I grabbed my keys

At least my yearning you appeased


Jay Rubin teaches writing at The College of Alameda in the San Fran­cisco Bay Area and publishes Alehouse, an all-poetry literary journal, at He holds an MFA in Poetry from New England College and lives in San Francisco with his wife and son.

Share |