Do not look at me that way, you, my dearest thought:
Charles Baudelaire
Right now, silvered pigeons
watch a roof window looking
into a loft where a candle's wick
is pinched by her hand, girl wearing
a corset and garters
that have relinquieshed their grip
on silk hose, love's sheer approach
to satisfaction.
Right now, she waits bare-limbed
for Baudelaire to return. The room
is signed with a scribble of smoke, more
graceful than the poet's script
on paper. His tongue has whispered
through soft flame and swabbed her body
thoroughly, giving way to words
that shape his genuis.
He always looks at her -- as a closed window,
inventing what drama shadows her soul.
Even the flowers he bought
are staged, sharing a courtship
with the room, his writing and barely her -- a vague
perfume mingling with the hours, some dust.
Right now, she wants to scream, pressing
his long fingers against her throat
so he can feel the tension. Overhead,
the birds disband, loosening more
slate tiles on the roof. She hears this;
it could leak rain or a strong chill
drifting in from the sea.
And right now, a key sails through the hole
of a brass lock, about to turn, the male
figure not suspecting how
twilight has fallen through, stripped down
to this ache, this singed chord
of her solicitude.
_________________________________________
The beautiful image showing a woman from the 18th century is by French artist, Marie-France Riviere. More of her wonderful work can be seen at her onl-ine gallery located here -- www.griviere.com/expo2000.
No comments:
Post a Comment