This wasn’t supposed to happen.

You came inside me, accidentally,

as we fucked on the springy single bed

in your co-op dormitory. Your eyes flickered

disbelief at first, then lidded heavy with

acceptance. We spoke calmly, carefully,

three weeks of togetherness tender between us;

I was still very much married at the time—

though only in the legal sense of the word—

yet somehow, I felt strangely serene,

certain of a love so seismic with you.

Nimbly dressing, our priorities shifted

from post-coital curling to procuring Plan B.

And when we reached my rusted Stratus, found

that the passenger side was beside a hedge—

the space between too narrow for you

to wedge into—so I suggested pulling out,

and laughter loosened the taut red cord

that ran between us, the same cord

that appeared to me in a vision

when we played music together.

This wasn’t supposed to happen:

Meeting on Craigslist of all places,

answering your ad for someone to play covers

of The xx with when I was a shitty drummer;

emailing you every night to pierce the absence

between our meetings because I lived to make

you laugh; sending you my lyrics so naked

in their intention I’d blush in your presence.

As we drove through the arterial streets

the critical turned casual; we talked of a life

together with art ballooning brightly

at its center—equal parts you, equal parts me.

You held my hand as we drugstore hopped,

when we faced another barren shelf,

as we spoke in hushed tones to white coats

and rolled our eyes behind their backs

for their knowing, strained politeness.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. But I saw

the path ahead unravel like a scarlet spool,

and my belly birthed butterflies when I swallowed

the pill that solved just one of our problems.

Katie Bowers is a poet and educator living in the rural Southeast with her husband and daughter. Her work has been published in Kakalak, Broad River Review, and Levee Magazine.