meatier malaise, a misalliance ripe

to burst: Soften the mouth to a smile and

it stutters; laugh, and your drink spills onto the wake

of repartee gone cold. Oh, you know

all the right things to say to yourself: Seize

the day, keep the faith, remember the children

starving in India . . . the same stuff
you say to your daughter
whenever a poked-out lip betrays

a less than noble constitution. (Not that
you’d consider actually going to India—all
those diseases and fervent eyes.) But if it’s

not your collapsing line of credit, it’s
the scream you let rip when a centipede
shrieks up the patio wall. And that

daughter? She’ll find a reason to laugh
at you, her dear mother: Poor thing
wouldn’t harm a soul! she’ll say, as if

she knew of such things—

innocence, and a soul smart enough to know

when to get out of the way.

Götterdämmerung

A straw reed climbs the car antenna.

Beyond the tinted glass, golden waves
of grain. Golly! I can’t help
exclaiming, and he smirks—
my born-again naturalist son
with his souped-up laptop,
dear prodigy who insists
on driving the two hours
to the jet he insists I take.
(No turboprops for this

old lady.) On good days
I feel a little meaty; on bad,
a few degrees from rancid.
(Damn knee: I used it this morning
to retrieve a spilled colander;
now every cell’s blowing whistles.)

At least it’s still a body.

He’d never believe it, son of mine,

but I remember what it’s like

to walk the world

with no help from strangers,

not even a personal trainer

to make you feel the burn.

(Most of the time, it’s flutter-heart
and Her Royal Celestial Mustache.
Most of the time I’m broth
instead of honey in the bag.)

So I wear cosmetics maliciously
now. And I like my bracelets,
even though they sound ridiculous,
clinking as I skulk through the mall,
store to store like some ancient
iron-clawed griffin—but I’ve never

stopped wanting to cross

the equator, or touch an elk’s

horns, or sing Tosca or screw

James Dean in a field of wheat.

To hell with wisdom. They’re all wrong:

I’ll never be through with my life.

Ghost Walk

Château de Lavigny
August 1996

The neighbors who never

set foot in the castle

never tasted the truffles or château rosé

say she walks room to room

all night turning the lights on

and by day a cold wind blows

through the tiered gardens

pinching leaves from the withering rose

It is said in the village
she died of pure heartbreak
not a love turned away
but a love lasting only
as long as a lifetime
his life and no longer
not enough for the lady
hair red as a brushfire

that refused to go out
though it faded with years
to the orange of the coral
that lives in the sea
and still she was lovely
pale beauty became her
like pearls or a music box
like Kaffee mit Schlag

slim in an era when slim wasn’t in fashion