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Riding past the Museum
of Natural History
and Seeing the Steps
by Ruth Sabath Rosenthal
I first took toward infidelity,
how far I descended.
My lover is history, has been
for some thirty-odd years, yet
I still remember my nervous
excitement. How unashamed
and unnaturally good
I felt. How beyond stupid
thinking I’d scale that high
unscathed, so sure I was just
stepping into my husband’s footprints
made long before I ever thought
of venturing to make hurt go
by going the ways of wayward
flesh — before I knew what I know
now: the crawl space one could reach
by carving out a niche in a marriage
preserved for the children’s sake.