A Dance Farewell
After thirty years of missing her
I knew that I had never loved her,
yet there she is
crouching naked over my face
wanting more
and I as willing as ever.
Ghosts are more potent than the living,
a sexual fantasy more gently erotic
than the bruising struggle
between flesh and blood.
Once (a long time ago),
a huge python slid into my house.
I watched it cross the floor,
not mesmerized, but struck into a stillness
by its very existence,
the gravity of its conjunction with my eyes,
its alien presence.
You come to me now
not as an object of love, not as a memory,
but as a presence, a conjunction with
my libido, and something else…
Last night tiny black ants were moving slowly
around the kitchen floor,
of course I sprayed them with ant-killer.
This morning there are corpses to brush away,
Then I see one lone ant travelling
from one poisoned cadaver to another,
as if confirming a reality it had never
experienced before.
It seemed almost like a ritual,
a dance of farewell.
The dead are always with us, never changing,
always the same, and there is no brush
and no away.
I realize now what you still mean to me,
it is something we never meant to each other in life;
it’s now a ritual in a fantasy landscape
where ‘farewells’
are more real than any past love.
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