^{A translation of Konstantin Cavafy’s “I was asking about the quality” 
 
         For Felicia, Kipper, Oscar, and Kevin. 
         And for Ted and Barron, in memoriam}

I came out 
of the office

where I had been 
hired in another shitty, low-paying job

(My weekly pay was nothing more 
than fifty dollars a week, most from tips).

With my waitress shift over, I came out 
at seven and walked slowly. I fell out

into the street, handsome, but compelling. 
It felt as if I had finally reached the full potential

of my own beauty (I’d turned 
sixteen the previous month).

I kept wandering all around 
the newly-cemented streets,

the quiet and old black alleys, past 
the cemetery leading to our home.

But then, as I’d paused in front of a clothing store
where some skirts were on sale

(polyester, cheap), I saw this face 
inside—a girl—whose eyes urged me

to come inside. So, I entered—
pretending I was looking

for embroidered handkerchiefs.
I was asking about the quality—

of her handkerchiefs—how much
they cost—in a whispery voice breaking open

with desire—and accordingly came her
shop-girl answers—rote, memorized—but beneath her

words, her eyes kept ablaze: Yes.
Mine, too, were a psalm of consent.

We kept talking about the handkerchiefs,
but all the while our one and only goal was this:

to brush each other’s hands—quickly—
over the handkerchiefs—to lean

our faces and lips
nearer to each other, as if

by accident. We moved quickly,
cautiously, yet deliberately—

in case her grandfather—sitting in 
the back—were to suspect something.