sitting on a smooth black stone.

I tell her I’m lost

and she throws me a rope of long, blonde hair,

but when I grab hold,

she pokes me with a trident

and I fall back into pure hopelessness.

I drift that way a long time,

until I find myself in your bedroom.

I inhale the perfume of your sleep,

a combination of baby powder and almond oil,

trying to keep from waking you as I breathe deeply,

but you open your eyes

and I am seized by the need to confess

all the things I’ve ever kept secret,

but I can’t remember what they are,

so I settle for idle conversation.

I mastered the art of seeming ordinary, I tell you,

but you don’t respond.

Is that why you don’t recognize me, I continue,

content to hear the sound of my own voice,

though it’s filled with weariness

and a chilly intimacy,

which seems to increase

with each breath I take.

“I rose from the dead just for you,” I say finally

and that seems to move you,

as a tear slides down your cheek

and seeks refuge under the sheet,

pulled up to your chin,

as if it can keep me from getting too close.

Didn’t you cry for me over green tea and poppy-seed cake?

Didn’t you make a pilgrimage to the botanical gardens

and sit meditating over my fate,

as if you could make sense of your own life

by summoning mine, or am I mistaken?

I loved how you stared at my photographs, I say,

and endless film footage of me

leading my life in the public eye,

as if I had no idea I was being watched.

My inamorata, I’ll do anything, I whisper,

as I take your hand

and press it against my erection.

At last, you seem to wake

from your enchanted sleep,

then wrest your hand from mine,

asking, “How can you dress like this?”

Is that any way to talk to your prince?

I admit I’m not wearing Armani,

but what difference does it make now?

You ask if I have proof I’m who I say I am.

You can’t believe I’d appear to you

wearing white chinos, white opennecked shirt

with the sleeves rolled up,

my feet bare, my toenails painted dark red.

I turn my head in profile.

See. Death only enhanced my beauty.

I’m still John.

I’m still living on in your dreams,

as horny and ordinary as any guy on a first date,

who can’t say, or do anything right,

but feels he must prove he can.

You’re not amused.

You think you can do better

and I sink into a puddle of saltwater,

as you finally relent and call my name.

It’s too late. I came and went

in the same instant it took you to realize

you’d captured your prize only to lose him