Anonymous Sex in Parked Cars

How well I got to know
the back seats of '60s American cars—

stiff vinyl benches lumpy with retrofit seatbelts,
dusted with cigarette ash and hormones.

But, God, I wanted my legs in the air
open to whomever was fucking me at the time,

because. Because,
I suppose I liked it, I hope I did.

I did it enough, anyway.

One dark night,
my Tudor Ford climbed the hill’s skull;
I watched for love-cars. Lights turned down,
they lay together, hull to hull,
where the graveyard shelves on the town. . . .
My mind’s not right.
—Robert Lowell, "Skunk Hour"

I would have greeted Lowell, mouth open,

working my way to his crotch on my knees
if he would have deigned to write a poem about me.

What do I remember
about those nights? Nothing much.

Guys fucked me. I fucked guys.
We listened to music, sometimes,
or smoked dope. Drank wine.
Occasionally, I thought it was love,
but I was never right about that,

ever. I worked my way out of it,
eventually, and married, as most of us do.

I love my husband, but I also
loved that freedom I once had
to couple with, like, anyone

I happened to find interesting.