Here in the half-light the covers are ruffled
but my skin is smooth to the touch.
My voice is soft in an ornate room.
All last night you called—
“se coucher, se coucher,”
But I did not listen,
I wanted another absinthe.
This morning I heard you leave
though my eyes were lost in my hair.
I know you stand somewhere
waiting for me to move,
but I will stay until late afternoon.
My body is mine this morning,
though when touching myself I know
I am holding it only for you.
Stuart Dischell’s poems are part of a sequence based on Bonnard's paintings of nudes. (Spring 1975)