she was a bohemian woman, & proud of it.
she told me words that rang of poetry & wisdom,
& I’ve expressed them here:
‘rest your head gently on the terrace of my breasts;
think no sad thought, nor any thought at all. when
you go out to your labors, to build things or kill things,
to seed the fields or bridge rivers, or to make art, do
it with the same passion that you bring to my bed,
the terrible rage that is desired by the singing whore
between my legs.
return to me, if you can, after sundown. I will bathe you &
play a gypsy melody on my mandolin. after supper & wine,
we’ll make love under the moon’s grin. you’ll give me every
ounce of devotion that you’re capable of giving, implying
that you would never again lust for the body of another
woman, & I will take that as if you meant it.’
I would lie in the silence as she slept, the darkness pierced
only by the glow of my last cigarette, wanting to write
poems for her. barbaric, maladroit love poems; but what
does a poet, of all creatures, know about love?
she had many lovers, being a sexual missionary as she was,
knowing that her charms & caresses would soften the hard
roads that a man must walk. I felt in my wayward heart that
she loved me as much as she could love any man. & if she
did not, I believed it anyway.
in time, other battlefields beckoned me. in our parting,
there was no melancholy, nor did any tear blemish
her intrepid nobility:
‘when you ride away
there may be long trails between us,
but there will be no broken hearts…’
(Art: Serge Marshennikov)