Among the many places
where calendars are unwelcome,
the appetite is specific
as a realm outside of time.
Say ‘Easter’ and a tropic whiteness
cries for blue,
to be exact as rain,
severe as schoolgirls washing up.
Diamond melancholy,
turned upside down in the silver
swayback of a polished spoon,
inelegant as youth.
(Compliments lead such sultry
private lives, for those
whose paradise is the far end
of a bar: the most familiar
sex act, with a stranger,
is a mistranslated recipe
of style over content.)
The hostess smiles beyond her
outstretched hand and reaches,
to pet, to pinch,
to wake.
Retire, loiter, and pretend,
frail nerves made cheerful
with the clearing away
of a meal, rich and eulogized.
Cigarettes and bathrooms and
balconies chipped from foreign
moons, stolen silverware
weeps up satin sleeves.
Take leave, but not before
the pas de trois of hostess, guest,
and starlit, fluttering stairs
cascade frozen into milk and atmosphere.
Bow and sip
from your hostess’ shadow,
let her knuckles brush your lips
like a playful boxer’s,
before directing you on your lesser way,
pointing to the stars
and proclaiming them to be:
her lovely, bitchy, deep-freeze sisters.