The So-and-So’s

Your other women are well-behaved.

Your magnolias and Simones.

Those with the fine brave skin like moon

and limbs of violin and bones like roses.

They bloom nocturnal and are done

with nary a clue behind them.

Nary a clue. Save one or two.

Here is the evidence of them.

Occasionally the plum print

of a mouth on porcelain.

And here the strands of mermaids

discovered on the bathtub shores.

And now and again, tangled in

the linen—love’s smell—

musky, unmistakable,

terrible as tin.

But love is nouveau.

Love is liberal as a general

and allows. Love with no say so

in these matters, no X nor claim nor title,

shuts one wicked eye and courteously

abides.

I cannot out

with such civility.

I don’t know how to

go—not mute as snow—

without my dust and clatter.

I am no so-and-so.

I who arrived deliberate as Tuesday

without my hat and shoes

with one rude black tattoo

and purpose thick as pumpkin.

One day I’ll dangle

from your neck, public as a jewel.

One day I’ll write my name on everything

as certain as a trail of bread.

I’ll leave my scent of smoke.

I’ll paint my wrists.

You’ll see. You’ll see.

I will not out so easily.

I was here. As loud as trumpet.

As real as pebble in the shoe.

A tiger tooth. A definite voodoo.

Let me bequeath

a single pomegranate seed,

a telltale clue.

I want to be like you. A who.

And let them bleed.