If Pride Will . . .
With her in the room there is a dawn
pink and soft, dark and wild—
the skin of her throat;
eyes like brilliant, salty pebbles—
and out of fear of me—
My heart remembers those eyes
in ecstasy, in innocence, when the fields
of her soul blew with heather, with heaven,
responding only to my music
I barely
feel the steps beneath my feet;
my words fade into breaths I
cannot take
She understands the words I
cannot say
". . . her teacher . . . her teacher . . ."
Almond eyes, skin so pure—
I have never seen this beauty
in my mirrors
She trembles; questions form; she
cannot give me everything.
Under that pink gown
her soul is confused
let me take you, child, and show
you things your father never taught you
She lingers; the kid gloves part
as I am panting, scenting
a woman's perfume
Forget this crowd of insouciant fools!
Come with me, come to me . . .
Christine, I—
even in effigy that boy disgusts me.
The ring of his love encircles no finger
but dreams in the richness of her bosom
He will not rob me of her, even in gesture
Tearing the chain from her throat
Releases more than perfume.