I gave my class your “dark night” poem to read,
not telling them who wrote it. They were quick
to name adultery as the midnight deed
the female speaker runs to, in a thick
burqa of darkness. And the poor thing gets
her just deserts, being wounded in the neck
by a vampire lover. My best student bets
her husband locks her out. I tried to check
these thoughts by pointing to her night of bliss
under the cypress trees, but they were cold
to ecstasy—young puritans who kiss
in condoms nowadays. And when I told
them who you were, it didn’t change their minds.
They don’t know darkness comes in different kinds.