After Shame

Bi poly pan, is how a friend in Philosophy
described me to me. I relay this as we watch late night
in bed on your laptop. (The host unwinding a joke
about loosening the lid on the stuck-fast jar 
of the spicy pickles of commitment.)

Bi poly pan—spondee and iamb
or else trochee squeezed in a single stress sandwich.

Once I had a lover who liked it with another
while I picked out the songs
and watched them melt on my bed 
into each other, into my covers
(and I’d turn bright red)

but I don’t turn red now
sharing our strangenesses
nor do I fear what you’ll say in reply—

and that, that feeling, is like diving
deep into clear green waves.