Méséglise-la-Vineuse – giving up the ghost

I whisper'd up to drown it out,      
the lisping cuss of a dragonfly        
and his ornery bluff.        
        
Last seen, the Machiavelli        
was gathering before the hawthorn,        
reaching through for their hips        
and haws of Maastricht wine.        
       
And with a sketch and a thought        
as scrawny red as the dawn        
I lipped, divined and withdrew from these bloodied wrists        
my understudy, my young reserve        
who was once so clear        
in intention        
and consequences        
of breaking laws of the land.        
       
With a perfume of burning fields she said,        
roll your sleeves up, child, your father thinks you a slob        
And I thought that this is what I wanted;        
that this is what I needed        
as they had sown, entwined        
and upholstered my limbs,  
with pyjama’d designs        
of tigers attacking a horse.        
       
…  

...
      
       
“Today I reconciled with Durrell and the wonderful beginning of Clea, that kind of 'Anti-Proust' ⁠— the miracle of the madeleine mirroring itself inversely in the perverse miracle of Justine's perfume that, when recognized, forever alienates her lover.”        
       
— Alejandra Pizarnik