Twilight

You never get used to being naked.
Even alone, you don’t look at yourself

long enough
to see what a lover would see.

Preemptively, you tell him,
”Turn off the lamp,” thinking darkness

will sympathize. Let him picture
Maria Callas in her thin days,

or even brilliant Galatea,
being loosed

from marble, beginning
as all talent begins—without

a self, only
as substance: rigid, yes,

but spontaneous, conceiving
motion through form.

What can the body believe?
Anything.

It slams the soul into a shadow
against the wall.

Poor soul, have you
learned nothing?

Clearly, you have no idea
what you’re doing. It’s so obvious

from the way you touch him,
first cautiously, then all at once.

Thank god for the night. You show yourself
for the stranger you are

to your body, this hapless dancer
waiting in a music box

finally to be opened, spun. You move
with you eyes closed,

both of you, even though
you think: it’s dark,

whatever you see will not change—
But what of the things you cannot see?

He moves your hands to where you are
nowhere to be found.

And, then, after it has all
happened, lying wide away

over him, you are surprised
to find this discovery

feels like loss, surprised, even,
to find the other there, both of you

so still it seems the room is empty;
but you don’t know anymore.

You imagine your body as the body of a horse
caught in blackberry thorns, except

they aren’t thorns, but rowels,
spindles of stars.

Stay with yourself a while longer.