my mother's friend you are, and never can
be more to me; the older man who gently
whispers into upturned ears, who sweet and quiet
makes excuses. you spoke to me, and i half-ran
into the room where women stand. you spoke, and i began
to respond in dulcet dumbness, your mythic epic
speech leaving me at odds with myself. but that is not
what i meant, not what i meant at all, and i half-ran
to the parlor where women stand and strain
for high ideas, like art and love, and can't attain.
i settle on the divan to hear each rant
in each simple searing voice. the pear, the peach,
still life and michaelangelo on the mantle, each
is for you: each waiting in its own sweet way,
as i wait for your eyes to give me sway
perhaps in your heart or mind. your youth is dim,
your face hides regret as you scan my face;
i should have been a pair of dark seashells
opening on the sea floor to reveal a pearl.