Core Breach

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I kissed your husband in August
one hundred degrees and a decade ago
out back by the trash cans,
"Thunder Road" harmonica spilling
out of the house.
He didn’t know what to do with his hands
push or pull
so they rested on my shoulders
like a question.
I kissed your husband in the guest room
January coats piled on the bed
because he was leaving
and our fingers brushed
as we reached for a glove.
It was an accidental meeting
of fingertips.
It was hotter than July.
I kissed your husband
in June and March
and December and each time
my heart plunged
to the place it goes
on the down of a swing.
I kissed your husband
yesterday
in your kitchen
6:32 on the stove clock
while he carved the roast
and then I went home
and kissed mine.