The beautiful, slightly
purposeful way you
moved down
Madison Avenue
Red-gold hair
growing out of the
deepest bass notes
in the moonlight you
summoned
and stood in
even at 11am
deeply female
though
once you said you
were also a man
named Rocky.
An orange dress flapped
around your slippers
as you scuffed up
the thin grey steps
of the Met
How intrepid this city can be.
I saw a paisley
patterned moth out on
the ledge
big as a hummingbird
but risking its veil—
stillness and feet
That’s a good omen, you said
to see a nighttime ghost
when the sun is
here.
It was dark inside
the museum
the stone was cool
the red jewels
awake all night and day
The air is always wet
at the Met, you said
Overly dewy
Ornate metals
breathing them in
then teacups, their
excessively dignified
faces—full also of a desire
for dignity—feeling they might
lack it.
You wanted to run
from thing to thing
and later you wanted potatoes
Mashed, fried,
boiled with butter
Potato salad, even
Potatoes
so many different ways
that we forgot they were
potatoes.
Your future smile
is inscribed
now that you’re dead
Walking up steps and looking
at things
I wanted to protect you
—even now I do
All day
and all night
Guarding the thought of you
And then there’s
another one.