Perverse Pleasure

Reunion

BY CAROLYN FORCHÉ

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.   

On 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, the tongues swishing   

in 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 washbasins, 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.