Regency Romance

All week I've been making the house,
following maids as their assistant.

Fresh eiderdown, lilacs,
gleaming posts, bed knobs.
An ashtray on your windowsill,
its pewter dish prepared to receive.
A box of gentleman's cigars
concealed in your nightstand.

I picture you standing by the window,
a horsehair bustle and tweed hunting cap,
forging and breaking
each smoky wedding band.
The window looks at nothing but
an inaccessible courtyard, that's just
a mistake of angle, a flaw in the design
of this house. Too narrow to be occupied
by even one person. The window's air, not view.
I'm always told that I shouldn't put you
in such a room as this, that it's a servant's room.
But you never complain.

A chaise-and-four across the fields.
I touch it before I hear it, and hear it
before I see it. Positioning myself in the dooryard,
a governess arranging brass animals,
I wait with love appropriate.

Your bustle catches in the chaise's door.

(I remember the Mid-Winter Ball,
how Shropshire Lads and ladies laughed
to see your skirts
catch in the steaming grate
and almost send you up like Lot's old house.)

Your husband laughingly squeezes
the thick swathes of material
to push them through the opening,
not designed to submit or admit
a woman's working clothes.
My brow creases; the smile breaks
a touch. I stream forwards and catch
you in my arms. 'Never like a woman, eh?'
says your husband, as mine extends his hand
to shake. 'Not like yours, old chap.
Mine moves with the grace of a farm animal.'

Your brilliant white teeth are set,
each pinking limb hardens.
You brace and take my proffered arm,
a crust of coldness on your prow.
When we're alone you'll smoke, I know,
the flesh relaxing on your bones,
my smile unbroken by age and endurance.

And we'll do other things as well.

Entwining and piercing.
Peeling the layers of wool and horsehair,
with male hands and women's hearts.