Once, in Soho,

I descended into a damp, whitewashed cavern, brushed beside
her ruby–beaded ropes, and gave my hand. Her gravel voice lisped light through
brown broken teeth sounding of cypress recesses
along the Mediterranean coast, and her hair, silver with lamplight, lifted
like dandelion in seed. She stroked and traced my heart line


back, almost to my knuckles, found my knowledge
line, flattered it was long and deep. "So," she soothed, "You
have been to school, but still, you have not
yet learned how it is that we breathe."


Then she made of me
a fist, heart against knowledge, and together
we took into us



all the air in the room
as if about to sing, or perhaps,



to float.


 

(Previously published in poet’s collection, Even Before My Own Name)