This Is Not an Elegy

Now I see the landscape behind me

as through a Claude glass—

tinted deeper, framed just so, bits

of gilt edging the best parts.

I see my unlined face, a thousand

film stars behind the eyes. I was

every murderess, every whip-

thin alcoholic, every heroine

with the silver tongue. Always young

Paul Newman’s best girl. Always

a lightning sky behind each kiss.

Some days I watch myself

in the third person, speak to her

in the second. I say: I will

meet you in sleep. I will know you

by your stillness and your shaking.

By your second-hand gown.

By your bruises left by mouths

since forgotten. This is not

an elegy because I cannot bear

for it to be. It is only a tree branch

against the window. It is only a cherry

tomato slowly reddening in the garden.

I will put it in my mouth. It will

be sweet, and you will swallow.