(Influence from; La Fin de Chéri, Colette 1926. )
one day you will either strike yourself out
with an exact deepening cut
or own the world with vinegar fingertips
coloring upturned lips
looking through letters in search of single word
to describe the ecstasy of youth
though before all these things I had
you first
before you knew what you were
and only lay in my arms shivering with
the desire of a young boy caught in his lust
one day when I am old
I will remember your beauty and capture
wound around your pomegranate mouth like cold leaves its burn and sun turns boys to gold
then looking into half drunk glasses and fallen buttons I shall
smile crookedly at my mad fortune
if fortune is the word
to describe amusing memories
when boys knew nothing of themselves
when girls were powerful and roamed their needs
like hungry bees seek nectar and we all rummage the pockets of our clothes
hoping for a missed penny
for time may lie against us
a sharpness in daylight glinting
but for those brief afternoons
when we have yet to inherit ourselves
know nothing of the plight of fading
with each wrought year
you looked to me for learning
I knew a little more by virtue of bad experience
and my belly full of wine and violence
turning them to my own understanding
touching you as your mother would
then something different, deeper, untaught
a house with many shutters
open one, touch the countenance of my pearl
you sighed
just like a girl opening herself
your legs as smooth as mine
your lips fuller and pursing toward
the need
I bowed sleekly
not because I honored you
but to feel the excitement quickening
against your muscled thighs
gathering that brief surge of fickle love
before it spilt and grew
sweetly cold between us
I felt that first
acrid taste of power
rolling underneath scotch blankets starved of end
not my kind yet
you were a beautiful boy
soft against me pliant by longing
I held this over our heads like a shawl
blocking out harsh light
inspecting its temporary reflection
your wistful elongate pursed in quiver
a silver arrow ready to pierce
any who chance your heart
and in years to come when
my hands are tired of making shadows
I will think of you and amuse myself
the girl who inherited memories and made
palaces of them
you can be my Chéri and
I, the woman who painted solace to your