As he falls in love he extracts from her the secrets
of her “former life.”
As he extracts from her the secrets of her “former life”
he falls in love.
It is wild, dizzy, winey-tart. It is an interrogation.
Tell me, he says. Please tell me.
Don’t be ashamed. Don’t be hesitant. It is human, he said,
he begs, it defines you, it is not my greed.
Don’t lie.
He is devoted. He is insatiable.
His shadow sprawls rich and bloated from his feet,
to her. But I’m sure you have forgotten something, he says,
the first frown, the knife-blade, between the perfect brows,
that can’t be the entire story, he says.
It’s scarcely more than an anecdote. It doesn’t convince.
He is tender, he is the shining wing of a great plane,
he is oblivion, all hunger, unquenchable thirst, devoted.
There is more to it, he says calmly, you are not telling me
the truth, he says, you are lying, he says, don’t you know
no revelation disgusts me?
As her “former life” drains away his love subsides.
Soon it will be companionable, and then brotherly.
And then it will be nothing at all.
Tonight, however, he is fierce with love, and willing
to beg. You have forgotten a great deal, he says, please
don’t lie to me, he says, what is it, he asks.
He always asks.
