if I could see just one more bloom of you

if I could keep a single seed

EMPRESS

EMPRESS

Get up, you said. I didn’t. I felt like something pink sinking

to the bottom of a very deep sea. Your shirt on the floor. I

plucked the empty sleeve. Witless. Where was I? Oh yes.

Here. Your beautiful legs. You touched my hair. I spat. It’s

tradition, after all: one in a long long line. Next time I might

like lipstick, mints. The blackbirds tapped the glass. A chain

saw roared. You pulled me up by the elbow; I hit my knee on

the chair. I ate dinner without washing, skin stiff, a spot on

my shirt. Blue beneath my cheek.

I don’t know anymore. I never did. You smiled across the

table and I remembered something else I could do with this

thing: smile back.

PERSPECTIVE

PERSPECTIVE

I could diminish you.

Itemize the missing tooth,

the careless clothes,

every time you couldn’t get it up.

The way your age betrayed you.

But why should I make you smaller than you were.

Than you are.

In truth, you look the same from here

as you did from there—

Immortal. Pristine.

SMALL TOWN

SMALL TOWN

I flipped through the plastic sleeve of photos—there were

your children, I didn’t want them at all—but the wife, yes,

let’s take a look. Very cold I said Well she’s quite a lot older

than me. Yes, you said, careful not to be offended, careful,

sometimes, with me, in this way, as if holding a very full

glass of acid. After a while I said She’s pretty in a deflated

voice and you looked at the picture and said Yes again. Like

you regretted it. What are we doing here I said, and you

shrugged, put your hands in your pocket along with the

wallet Being together. Which was true, there in the wood

I was being, moment to moment, as I was nowhere else

before or since. There was a knock at the door. I thought,

breathless, Her. But you went to the door shirtless saying

Yes? And I hid my face in the blanket. That your car? the

woodcutter said. It’s on my lot. Sorry, you said, I’m going

in a moment. He knew you. He knew your wife, too. You

shrugged: small town.

THE WOODCUTTER

THE WOODCUTTER

His is the hut that butts the clearing.

I spied him tanning hides, stretching skins.

He had your exact width of thumb.

What is the rule for whipping, I inquired; he said

Ask your man. I asked.

Belt and bruise and rose and gold.

And then you withdrew to the window,

your back to me.

What I read there I will never write,

nor will I even think it,

your shoulders sloped just so.

˚

Branch over branch: this is where

it grows thickest.

This is where I crawled in small