Dedicated to the One I Love
It s simply hopeless, isn t it? Even if you begin
by postulating the existence of some exotic place--
a village of divine origin, or diabolical perhaps--
maybe a city of sin, or hindrances such as torpor and lust
(those are the ones I like best),whole days spent in bed,
wearing silk pajamas, sipping cappuccino, daydreaming--
going backwards in time (you could visit Paris in the first
half of the century if you wish),gliding down bannisters
and into the ballrooms of the past where, by some odd chance,
you already know the steps to all the dances, you, Darling,
would still become a politician, some charismatic figure
issuing proclamations at every hour. And no matter what you say
or said, it would create the illusion of making sense, inspiring shock,
warning of imminent and supreme crisis without end--and all
at once we d be back in the dark ages, and then the desert--
and you would decide to leave (don t you always?), slipping on
your coat and glasses, (alas)and rushing off before the part begins
with Jacob wrestling the angels, and all the patriarchs go limp--
but you wouldn t resist gazing back (would you?just once?)
through the promised lens --to see me again, there where I am
forever lazing in bed, combing my long black hair over my shoulders
and nude breasts? Outside the sky is shimmering, and it s dusk
in Jerusalem (or is it Valencia or Madrid?), and someone is ringing
the doorbell again and again, and I am imagining God is as happy
with the world (unredeemed as it is) as an ant atop a wet, bruised peach.
NIN ANDREWS
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