Reunion

Just as he changes himself, in the end eternity changes him.
—Mallarmé
On the phonograph, the voice
of a woman already dead for three
decades, singing of a man
who could make her do anything. 
On the table, two fragile 
glasses of black wine,
a bottle wrapped in its towel. 
It is that room, the one
we took in every city, it is
as I remember: the bed, a block 
of moonlight and pillows. 
My fingernails, pecks of light 
on your thighs.
The stink of the fire escape. 
The wet butts of cigarettes 
you crushed one after another. 
How I watched the morning come 
as you slept, more my son 
than a man ten years older. 
How my breasts feel, years 
later, the tongues swishing 
in my dress, some yours, some 
left by other men.
Since then, I have always 
wakened first, I have learned 
to leave a bed without being 
seen and have stood
at the washbasins, wiping oil 
and salt from my skin,
staring at the cupped water 
in my two hands.
I have kept everything
you whispered to me then.
I can remember it now as I see you 
again, how much tenderness we could 
wedge between a stairwell 
and a police lock, or as it was, 
as it still is, in the voice
of a woman singing of a man
who could make her do anything.