The Music

It is a blue fire
in his eyes, or an old cold,
and so carefully he looks
when he stops in the shop
each morning. Tenderly, I pass
his cup and a tartine
on a white plate, a little extra
butter and apricot jam.
Maybe he smiles,
a cloud on his shoulders.

The music in his eyes follows me,
but when he plays his violin
I know he is looking for her,
as they all do when they arrive
on the threshold of manhood
or on the outskirts of town.

Tante Helene says ...
Those old stories whisper:
a boat in the sun,
a goddess in a vial of tears.

Now I can hear her whispering,
this woman who is not a woman,
and I will set out apples,
light a votive, and offer
a glass of wine to win her trust,
beg her to leave him to me.