ALAN SHAPIRO
given shape and texture
by what the body is
denied, spectrum of desire
colorful when impeded,
white when not—since
at the end your love for me
was mostly fantasy,
and since fantasy became
a way of keeping faith,
of being present, let
it be your fantasy
tonight that I am here
beside you speaking, that
these words are mine.
Here you are just as you were
a year ago, remember?
on your birthday, you
in the dark den, in your lap
a shot glass full of what
around that time you took
to calling your vitamin h,
your vitamin happy, the tv
on, the sound off, the screen
crosshatched with rubbery
bands of color that
would spasm into tit
or ass a moment then
be gone, so that you couldn’t
tell if what you saw
How long had it been
since you had touched me?
I was too sick to care
by then, or to think much
about what it was like
between us before the cancer,
those times we couldn’t get
enough of one another,
and how we afterward
would lie there side by side,
my back to you, you with
an arm curled under me,
the other over, your hands
moving (unable not
to) up and down from rib
to nipple, nipple to rib,
as if you thought my body
were your undeserved
good luck. But that was then.
Now I was bald, I had
one breast, it was your birthday,
and I’d forgotten, hadn’t
bought you anything,
not even a cake, and when
I woke and found you there
in the dark, the tv flashing
like bad nerves in the shot
glass you were lifting slowly
to your lips, I suddenly
really for the first
time knew how hard it must
have been for you to look
at me and not flinch, not wish
of my breasts, instead of leaving
one behind, one freakish
remnant of a normal woman.
I got on my knees, I kneeled
before you, but before
I could ask you to forgive me,
what could I do to make
it up to you? you took
my head in both hands, tilted
it sideways, gently, saying,
go down on me, honey,
come on, it’s been so long,
make me happy, you
can do that for me, can’t you?
You should have known
that I was done with that
by then, too far inside
my body’s misery
for sex, for you, for
anything beyond
my wanting not to suffer.
But now it’s gone, the body,
the misery’s gone too,
like a jammed channel
that’s suddenly unjammed,
the picture unobstructed,
so I can see how generous
you feel, as I go down on you,
how blind but generous,
the way one hand is resting
on my face, my cheek,
to guide it, coax it while
the other hand is reaching
collar, to cup the one
breast tenderly, gratefully,
as if another swayed
beside it, and as I make
you happy, as your eyes
close, and you say my name,
say it softly, sadly,
as if it were another
woman’s name, as if
I were the woman you
were cheating on me with,
I can see at last just
what it is you think
you’re doing: it’s your birthday,
and in two months I’ll be dead.
This is the last time I will
touch you in this way.
It is your birthday, you
are celebrating, you
are happy, handsome, and
your wife is beautiful.