Wallflower

 Come friend, 
I have an old story to tell you—

Listen.

Sit down beside me and listen.

My face is red with sorrow 
and my breasts are made of straw.

I sit in the ladder-back chair
in a corner of the polished stage.

I have forgiven all the old actors for dying.

A new one comes on with the same lines,
like large white growths, in his mouth.

The dancers come on from the wings,
perfectly mated.


I look up.
 The ceiling is pearly.

My thighs press, knotting in their treasure.

Upstage the bride falls in satin to the floor.

Beside her the tall hero in a red wool robe
stirs the fire with his ivory cane.

The string quartet plays for itself,
gently, gently, sleeves and waxy bows.

The legs of the dancers leap and catch.

I myself have little stiff legs,
my back is as straight as a book
and how I came to this place—
the little feverish roses,
the islands of olives and radishes,
the blissful pastimes of the parlor—
I'll never know.

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