Cavafy in Palm Springs, 2014
He rode in on horseback, his silky mustache
And I was worried for his life. Not that he couldn’t
Care for himself. He had strong legs, especially
The thighs. He was so impressionable among
The men. Christian took an instant liking
To the manner in which he spoke. So sure. So
Certain, a ballooned sternum of a person.
O how I wanted him too. I couldn’t let us, not he.
People came in riding on the back of Azrael,
We did too. If you asked then, I’d have denied it.
I’m not the person. I could never. Not me, gasp!
But his words, so promising. Full of life, of the milk
Of the sun. How could one so close to death
Resist such a charm? Someone offered him a gin
And I interjected with a Manhattan. I’m no savior
But I licked his ear with a few words foreshadowing
A fever that was so endless; so tragic, even his poems
Wouldn’t save his life. And so he rode away,
In the middle of night despite all of us awake.
I, the worrier of life despite the perils of my own
Meeting him in the midst of a most lonesome summer.
Back of the House, Palm Springs
there was nothing ugly that remained there.
Christian asked if I could accompany him
to the pit of the house we were inside of,
which belonged to neither of us. Nothing
ever did those days; belong to us that is.
We might’ve walked hand in hand, or arm
in arm, whorled together by each step, by
the light escaping our lips as if it was just
another breath whirling on by like bread.
I tried enjoying our bodies but couldn’t.
Didn’t even have the wherewithal to notice
his hands limping far from love with me,
so we stood around in a static indifference
holding onto whatever molecules were left.
His lips were becoming blue, mine as well.
We never even noticed until it was too late;
until everything was iris and easily flaked.
We arrived to the back of a stranger’s room,
which was his house. I was devoid of any
belonging and heard only chattering teeth
from Christian and I. Our arriving to nothing.