A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
When I left the sad movie feeling happy, because the movie was perfectly beautiful, a stranger came up to me and kissed my hands. I would have run away but he was so graceful, his acrobat body bent in a bow of homage, his narrow feet bare in white slippers. “Do I know you?” I asked. He spoke with more kisses, deft, dry, tongueless. The stars flashed and faded. The stoplights were melting roses, passersby nearly naked—not me, my hands pale as Christmas paperwhites. Soon I’d be eighty. My hip ached, the thumb he kissed bent with arthritis. His scent was lime, and the nape of his neck smooth as summer jade. “We love the ladies,” he called, as he bowed again, as if to royalty, and flourished his hand in twirls of farewell.
Copyright 2019 Miriam Levine. From Saving Daylight by Miriam Levine.