Madame X

Sitting here tonight, heavy summer air

sagging at the screen door,

in my plunging black slip,

single fluorescent lamp lit,

a bit of sunburn blushing my pale edges,

dodging flits of furred moths

and watching the pendulous

crook legs of the harvester

spider work the small arc

of the crown molding,

I think of the long gunmetal rows,

the back stacks, where I’d sneak

deep in the library to listen to opera:

Prince Igor, perhaps,

large headphones strapped on

heavy and green with a black coil,

waiting out the light until closing.

And while the boyars wailed

I handled the old spines close at hand:

a slim set of faded turquoise Chinese Love Poems,

a thick, glossy, mis-shelved John Singer Sargent

with its jacket slightly torn,

in which I might chance upon

a card, a fuchsia 3”X 5”

tucked in a page where you had written

two or three lines about me, unmistakably:

the chime of my laugh,

or the tangle of my thin silver

earrings, small hammered

glinting pieces

which invariably you’d feel

compelled to straighten

in your desire

for order,

squinting through the slow

pale curl of the Marlboro Light

dangling from your lips,

your soft hands

easily smoothing the twists.