All my girlfriends were talking about sex
and the vibrators they ordered from “Eve’s
Garden” which came with genital portraits

I try to keep the promises I make
—for each one broken breaks the world—and seem
inhuman: no crack, no fissure, no mistake.

I love desire, the state of want and thought
of how to get; building a kingdom in a soul
requires desire. I love the things I’ve sought—

Sweat lingering in broadcloth over soap,
the first man’s smell I smelled belonged to you.
Couldn’t look at myself. I trust you saw my taupe

Temples look like discarded alphabets.
We loved lying in their shadows lazily
deciphering and resting and laying bets

It doesn’t speak and it isn’t schooled,
like a small foetal animal with wettened fur.
It is the blind instinct for life unruled,

Broken lines continue, you know, way past
their breaks, as medians in roads do, or
the dot tracings in kid’s books, where the last

Never so deeply in love as I am
have I been,
never so nourished by touch as I am

Putting a burden down feels so empty
you almost want to hoist it up again,
for to carry nothing means there is no “me,”

All my life I’ve had goals to go after, goals
in a molten distance. And just the way snows
in the distance, dense and white among groves

We adults make love, but I am far away
in a hut at dusk where two lovers lay

Molly Peacock’s poem “The Distance Up Close” appeared in our Summer 1983 issue. Her most recent book is The Paper Garden. The Distance Up CloseAll my life I’ve had goals to go after, goals
in a molten distance. And just the way snows
in the distance, d…