Ken Gosse
The Deep, Dark Woulds
What if I’d walked in on her when someone else was still in her?
Would my muffled cry be heard above the murmurings they purred?
Would they see or even care, while they embraced, that I was there?
Would their pas de deux miscue if I approached their sweet milieu?
Would I be disturbing her if I asked whether they’d defer?
Would I hinder their desire to play his flute and strum her lyre?
Would their fête continue on as she played nymph and he played faun?
Would I turn my back and leave, despaired of loving, just to grieve?
Would I rant and rave and fuss—a noisy, rusty blunderbuss?
Would I blame her, him, or me, or lay the blame upon all three?
Would I kill her, me, or him—perhaps all three upon a whim?
Would I stay and watch a while, enticed by her coquettish smile?
Would I hide my face in shame and ask if I could join the game?
Would I crumple to my knees—my tearful eyes both begging “Please?”
Would she welcome me instead, or welcome both into her bed?
Would we be appeasing her if we would both try pleasing her?
Would I be the only one remembering what they had done?
Would their dulcet minuet surfeit my memories with regret?
Would we ever once again restore our love from way back when?
Today, if I walked in on her, would all these nightmares reoccur?
And if she were my wife, instead, would I have cared who’s in her bed?