How the Last Act Begins

ISSUE: Autumn 1998

The trouble with you is you’re not
loving enough. A drastic
summons, a trumpet of
hard last words.

I’m dry as a biscuit
but somehow a breast of mine
stiffens, unbuttons
and offers itself. Is that
what you want?

Now your body’s in bed again, crying
that it can’t fall asleep.
I forget what to feel, but I’ll do
what I’m trained to do:
go barefoot, make the children
take off their shoes. You require
absolute silence.

The mind thinks “lemon” and the tongue
puckers. But what about the woman
who painted a tiger on the wall so real
it scared her out of the house?

I’m not making this up:
the three of us on tiptoe, the shades
down, the house darkened, and you
center-stage, wearing
that shiny black satin eye-mask.

Chana Bloch

Chana Bloch’s poetry and translations have appeared in the New Yorker, Atlantic Monthly, and the Nation, among other places. Her collections of poetry include Blood Honey (Autumn House, 2009), and she edited and translated Yehuda Amichai: The Selected Poetry (Harper & Row, 1986) with Stephen Mitchell. Her awards include the PEN Award for Poetry in Translation, two fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, and two Pushcart Prizes. Her translation, with Ariel Bloch, of The Song of Songs was named a Times Literary Supplement Book of the Year.