As if it were an article of clothing
discarded during an act of passion,
 
a crow feather stops me on my way
to the car, arms full of packages,
 
and my day tilts as I enter a portal
to another time and place where
 
once I flung a pair of black lace
panties across the bedroom.
 
The whole year was like that:
charged, raucous, exhilarating,
 
bed the lushest of forests,
rain-made waterfalls appearing
 
overnight, a sloppy nest right under
the window trickling twigs.
 
At home I find the panties under
cotton socks and an old T-shirt.
 
Rows of ruffles in front, see-through net
in back. The force that catapulted them
 
shivers through me. I crush them
in my fist, then tuck them back
 
into the farthest, darkest corner
of the underwear drawer.