Just as he changes himself, in the end

eternity changes him.

Mallarmé

On the phonograph, the voice

of a woman already dead for three

decades, singing of a man

who could make her do anything.

One the table, two fragile

glasses of black wine,

a bottle wrapped in its towel.

It is that room, the one

we took in every city, it is

as I remember: the bed, a block

of moonlight and pillows.

My fingernails, pecks of light

on your thighs.

The stink of the fire escape.

The wet butts of cigarettes

you crushed one after another.

How I watched the morning

come as you slept, more my son

than a man ten years older.

How my breasts feel, years

later, like sacks of tongues

swishing inside my dress, some

yours, some left by other men.

Since then, I have always

wakened first, I have learned

to leave a bed without being

seen and have stood

at the wash basins, wiping

oil and salt from my skin,

staring at the cupped water

in my two hands.

I have kept everything

you whispered to me then.

I can remember it now as I see you

again, how much tenderness we could

wedge between a stairwell

and a police lock, or as it was,

as it still is, in the voice

of a woman singing of a man

who could make her do anything.