Boris
Made of gristle, a Karloffian brow,
& bent teeth that tip up his upper lip
like the fingers of a girl half cowed,
half bold, who studies through venetian blinds
her father drawing a suitcase through the snow�
Boris seems to be the kind of man
could wrench a hook from the palm of his hand
with a little grunt (at the
effort, not the pain)
& a tear, just one, from one eye, like a big-eyed
sentimental needlepoint
or a mole on an Enlightenment tart.
Boris could kill me with one foot
(which they do, don't they,
in the Black Forest when they're not
munching dirt-black cake &
gulping cherries whole)�Boris
could kill me with one good stomp if he weren't
afraid of my Sophistication,
the buckled shoes I thought would only
make me fit in
in Berlin 'til I saw
Boris's dingy sneakers, his unpracticed stubble, how
he hunches his bulk to the last hot inch
of his hand-rolled cigarette & passes
the end through the blinds to the half-good girl
not dislodging her eyes from her father
to sip out the smoke.
Boris, I want to say, I'm a ghost�
& a ghost needs putting away�its whole
ghostliness being a way of saying
"put me away"�
tell me there's a strength exclusive to
those blessed by love's withdrawal�
say the forest, the attic, the well has room;
say the excommunication doesn't last;
fence me round; hide me in your gloom;
teach me to lose what I've lost.
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