At the Picnic

AT THE PICNIC The friends of my five wives Have this nefarious aura Of having shared a secret. Their eyes lowered But when I ask them What for They only glance at each other And smile, Which only increases my desire To know. Something they did Long ago, Heedless of the consequences That left Such an indefinable bitter palatableness. Is that the explanation? For the way They rest their breasts In the palms of each other’s hands, Their eyes closed In the winter heat? Come tell me Or give me a hint. Trace a word or just a single letter In the wine Spilled on the table. No reply from any of them With the waning sunlight The breeze of the evening On their faces. They are freely drinking And saying nothing Dazed and mystified as they are By their treacherous feminine power To give And to take away happiness As if their heads Were crawling with serpents.