VIII.
To love another woman as if the self.In your arms, sculpted from scullingyour lean body across each distance;
in your eyes’ ready laugh; in the riddleof a thin-lipped smile; in legs’ vestigeof your walking days: a testament tothe beauty of metamorphosis. Love,then, in the slight leeward list of ribs,your delicate hand angled to marka point or tuck my wayward hair.To love another woman, as muchas the self. When we found ourselvesin bed, breathless with champagne,I wondered: how bright could I makeyour eyes in this twilit room where,by fiat, we deemed there was no otherlaw? After you were gone, I climbedback into bed, soft nest of your hair,the sheer splendor of warmed skin.Old bed, where yearning pulled usto anchor in the loam of each other;
soft bed, where we breathed, cleavedtogether; high bed, by west window,where, later, you curled and died.
