Photograph of People Dancing in France

It's true that you don't know them--nor do I 
know what I wanted their movement to say 
when I tucked them in an envelope with words

for you. I thought it was my life caught 
in a warm night. I believed myself loved 
by the wan and delicate man you see dancing

against the drop-off behind them all. But you 
can't see that they are on a mountain, that 
just beyond the railings is a ravine, abrupt

and studded with thorn, beyond it, a river, 
dry bed of stone that, by the time you take 
the photo from the envelope, will have filled

with green foam of cold torrents from high 
in the Alps. This is France, you think, as you look 
at the people dancing, but there is nothing of France

visible save one branch of a tree close enough 
to catch in their hair. I could tell you that by the time 
you see this picture, the young girl with the long jaw

launching her bared navel at the lens will have bedded 
the man you're afraid of losing me to. There is food 
on the table, French food, and so more beautiful for that,

green olives in brine, a local cake in paper lace, 
sliced tomatoes that look in the flash like flesh 
with their red spill of curve and seed. I could tell you

they grew not twenty meters from the table 
where you see them, that I picked them one day 
with the small woman who bares her breasts

in this photo because she is about to leave us
and doesn't know any other way to say she is sad. 
They're alive is all you'll say of the scene, which

is to say you feel you're not. It is November 
by the time I've thought to send you the photo, 
by the time I feel myself ready to part with the image.

By then, the woman of the manifest breasts has left us, 
and the one with the dark eyes who loved her 
has darker eyes. Very soon after this dancing stopped,

the man with the hollow cheeks took the girl 
of the ripe navel to his bed because he, like you, 
is so afraid of dying, he invites it daily, to try him.

The girl's last lover was a boy on heroin in Cairo 
with the possible end of them both asleep in his blood,
and now too in the blood of the lover I wanted

to save. Because you are married to a woman 
who insists on wearing her dead sister's clothes, 
you understand that while I am not in this picture,

I am in this picture. Know that I need never see it again 
to see: the incessant knot of the girl's navel is a fist, 
an oily wad of sweet-sour girl flesh, a ball of tissue

I twisted and crushed all of that evening, and since. 
You refuse to remember her name, or his, because you want 
to be my lover again, and the others must be kept

abstract. They were alive you say again, not more, 
because the heart is nothing if not a grave. You want me 
because your wife holds out her familiar wrist to you

in the terrible sleeve of her dead sister's dress, 
because I reach for the gaunt cheek of the man 
who worships at the luminous inch of belly on the girl

who lifts her arms from the body of a boy none of us 
will ever know in Cairo, the girl, who dead center 
in the photo, lifts the potent, mocking extravagance
of her flash-drenched arms, and dances for us all.

Outliving the Lyric Moment

Angel and muse escape with violin and compass; the duende wounds.
                                         —Federico García Lorca

I didn't expect to escape.  I've stepped out of planes
into Madrid and Bangkok, Prague and Seoul,
each time a solo in a world that was, if not cruel,
supremely indifferent to the fact of my breath. 

I loved where I could, did not imagine my mouth
without light, fish at home in my bluest wells.
I went in a stalk of pure wanting that knows
there's no getting, and collected tiny lemons

of joy when they ripened in reach of a window
in Vence where I happened also on tangles
of grapes fallen and trodden on the road to the sea.
I plucked green stones from Spanish sand, wore

the white hibiscus for a day behind my ear
where it softened with rot in a pattern of etch.
In Andalusia the wine is new and ruby, breath
and aroma the tools of being in places where days

are paid out like so many queens on obsolete
coins.  Now, not suddenly, but after long balance
of what there is against what might or might never be,
the never-was has dared to love me back.

So it was death all along who stood in the ferry
with his dirty blonde hair and bright nylon pack,
but I never imagined he'd be so young
as he slung the pack, leapt to the shore

and never looked back for me.  That's why
my flesh loves me today.  There are salt and heat
and a body of bread, new if not endless, and a rumor
if not news of the future.  It dies as it lived, the idea

of duende, a proximity, a song we don't necessarily
need in a land of snow and icy green lakes where
the weather's a tomb and the lover's strong thigh
is white and marvelous as marble, a throne

on which I suppose I could sit and grow handsomely old.