LULU AND JACK
after G.W. Pabst’s Pandora’s Box
Things are dear on the eve of departure.
You sit in my lap and we watch
the candle you lit, keeping vigil
over the remains of the stale bread.
We left our shadows in the stairwell
like great overcoats, fit for giants.
They were clumsy loiterers,
out of breath by the first landing
where I slid my knife over the banister
because I didn’t want to hurt you—
half-seal in your black dress,
half-hummingbird.
Here, another woman gave me a gift
for you. A twig of mistletoe grey as her eyes.
She was an odd sort of thief,
paying back for the look she stole,
and I was like a river, unable to refuse,
fearing the skipped stone of each glance.
It rode light as a feather in my waistcoat,
but it has a burr’s cling, the smell
of outdoors. We could kiss beneath it,
and wake up in the middle of the woods.
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