Le Bernin
This woman who meets me
in mirrors, who you alone truly
undressed – she is out of reach.
Her contours are translucent,
they burn in flames
like cellophane in the blind air.
Your hands are the only borders
I remember, they outline everything
I am and everything I ever was.
I am the line of red ocher
painted on your grave, curving
each letter of your name.
No touch alters your touch
How much piety is there inside
a woman’s body when it sighs ?
Each time you came, above
and below me, I vanished
into that one sound which claimed
my body was no longer here.
The warmth gone, the unborn child.
I am, extend my thirst —