Drive

We are two copper spoons

beneath the blanket.

I am listening to my wife’s

gentle breaths.

She is finally relaxed

after a long night of wrestling

in her sleep.

My hand is on her thigh

but I am thinking about

the perfect drive I hit

on number five at Southwind,

and the seven iron to the edge

of the green.

I replay the birdie putt trickling in

to the hole over and over again.

It could be on the golf channel

except there’s no roaring crowd,

no exuberant fan screaming,

“get in the hole!”

no English accent whispering

into a microphone

about the significance of the shot,

how my steady play today

finally reflects my potential,

my work ethic, my readiness

for the moment.

She shifts her weight, the air between

our hips disappears.

I close my eyes.

I am no longer watching the flight

of the ball. I am the ball in flight.

I have been well struck. I am moving

with intention toward the earth.

This is not a game.

And it’s us doing all the whispering.