by Chris Davidson

We took the island course inland
where hills were split by rain,

where paths of red dirt lay, and roads
were wet and black and windy.

With car parked we heard leaves
brushing against leaves, and later,

the path clinging to our shoes,
we found the car where we left it

and brought back on its floor mats
the land to our hotel room.

Oh well, we said, each to the other,
we didn’t make the volcano.

She’d planned on pushing me in,
she said, which would’ve been

pretty cool, I admitted. In my voice
I hid it, the secret thrill. And then

she jumped my bones—first time
in twenty married years without tears.

• Welcome to Entasis.