Translations from the Flesh

Amo, Amas, Amat

16 amo, amas, amat Those of you who know, and have always known, Tragic possibilities in a soft hand, in hair That tangles at some seductive touch, May gather at midnight for the rites of love And other punishments the stars pronounce, Pillows white as moons from which you’ve weaned yourself, Still mouthing desire with voluptuous tongues That can no longer tell guilt from gratitude. In the darker tawdry of your talk, Where all verbs conjugate at the first person, Your pallor comes from polishing the apple Of the I: I saw, I took, I ate. Corrosions of ammonia could do no worse, Or theories of therapy, or solo flights, Those secret sweet ascensions in the bed. In the leopard’s hide, the leopard feels at home. But you are naked, a raw voice, a vapor, The hiss of yes at the tail end of day, Vermilion on the verge of indigo, the sky Sliding past the wet light you were born to, Brine and blood beyond the broken mother. And what way back to the Palace of Pure Affection, Hidden in Beijing, in the old Forbidden City? The gates of China close against you still. The ribs of the firecrib are black with ash. The flames rise and crest like fever. And who Hasn’t felt the afterburn of love? 17 The heart mills, and the loins grind, and the lips Kiss you to a calm, to a silent partner With no control, no purpose but to pay— The immensities of mind made small, the body Its own Babylon, a human sacrifice On the high altars of the lower gods. ...