After dark, the bar full of women part of me loves—the part that stood
naked outside the window of Miss Geneva, recent divorcée who owned
a gun, O Miss Geneva where are you now—Orpheus says she did
not perish, she was not turned to ash in the brutal light, she found
a good job, she made good money, she had her own insurance and
a house, she was a decent wife. I know descent lives in the word
decent. The bar noise makes a kind of silence. When Orpheus hands
me his sunglasses, I see how fire changes everything. In the mind
I am behind a woman whose skirt is hiked above her hips, as bound
as touch permits, saying don't forget me when I become the liquid
out of which names are born, salt-milk, milk-sweet and animal-made.
I want to be a human above the body, uprooted and right, a fold
of pleas released, but I am a black wound, what's left of the deed.
My Improv':
At Underground a few friends toast to good health
and the tiny pieces of us (souvenirs) that remain
from Italy. We wore different faces there, acted
as if mythology could be a persona. The days caused us
to route the alleyways and towns like a group bound
by their otherness, our sameness. A full moon, Italy
changed us into something else, something free.
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