Dane Street Beach, Beverly, Massachusetts
That night, he coaxed me out of my bathing suit,
looked me over by moonlight, then flashlight,
and then I realized why he’d brought a blanket,
all planning for light romance becoming moot
as entered me, his panting centered on my ear,
his teeth raising a nasty welt on my bare neck
to mark me his and a new non-virgin to boot,
possessed and subdued by this sexual buccaneer.
Why do I not remember the tide? The moon?
Were they ebbing or full? Was the bathhouse
watching? Did lights on Lothrop Street show
passersby phony love in bloom? Why so soon
was it finished? So soon the stony beach of no
interest, the blanket dirty, the wind out of tune.
Rob Jacques resides on a rural island in Washington state’s Puget Sound, and his poetry has appeared in literary journals including Atlanta Review, Prairie Schooner, Amsterdam Quarterly, Poet Lore, The Healing Muse, and Assaracus. A collection of his poems, War Poet, was published by Sibling Rivalry Press (2017). A second collection, Adagio for Su Tung-p’o, will be published by Fernwood Press in the fall of 2019.