have been changed after the potlatch
(which cured our homesick possessions),
after the glasses have been converted to sand,
the wallpaper into birches, sound into cellos
and Madonnas into goldfinches, that someone
might hear, among the lightning fireflies,
among the harebells, in the same season
as this one, under Sirius, beckoning
wind in the stillness, wondering
what animal left these tracks ...
Elizabeth Spires
STORYVILLE PORTRAIT
Her wish: to live in the body
as a visitor, mouth painted on,
breasts two cones of light,
legs closed against her sex,
and not a clue, not a sign
New Orleans red light district, 1912;
a photograph
by
E.J. Bellocq
as she lies on the swirling wicker chaise
that she ever wanted anything but this.
A woman with a past but no future,
acquiescent to any mood,
who knows that acquiescence is her freedom.
The secret: to lie still, her hair
unfolding on the pillow, to lie still
and look at us until we understand
that look is our own conscience.
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