When lovers watch the unlovable guy transforming until the gal
chooses him, part of the miracle is Eros growing up
the rest is their pleasure, watching. Some nights
pleasure is so dressed up in grey silk, so French,
she seems an evil flower. After delicious sex you sink
into that sleep where the unborn stay
motionless, perpendicular. You forget the taste of sole—
lemony, with a dash of parmesan and parsley, the garnet
bowl, rosepetals mixed with camellias, a shifting of season, a suite
for cello, es-dur, after the volcanic October sunset, your passion
matured into humor, your groom into mate, a naturalist
who noted that a cancer-claimed wife gathered her family,
announced, no more, and two days later died. The repeated
melodic line, kids skipping down a dirty downhill street,
a grinning girl, her arm flung round her buddy’s shoulder,
a boy on a rooftop flying a red kite—these make assaults
bearable. Pleasure is a participle—surviving, thriving . . . .
Summoned, the dreamer sees a neighbor, a stranger
watering the tree you two planted—planted, fed, jealously
watched—the fairytale, this side by side life, this tree
with its miraculous mimosa-like blossoms—Watered!
as if it and all that it is emblem of, belonged to him