Amid
the throng of partygoers
huddled around the table
half of each driven to grab the drumstick
and in a bite tear all flesh off the
bone
the other half fettering the one
reminding it of the eons
it took those unwearied hands to work
stones
from tools for smashing skulls
to polished spires called forks.
Amid
the other half-beasts
I
felt your heat.
From
the hodgepodge of smells
wafting from meat, spices, sweets
the
she-hound in me sniffed, singled out
the scent of your sweat.
My
head turned. There you were
the smile on your face that of First Man
the first time his eyes fell
on his pulled-out rib.
Nice
shirt, you said.
At
once I hated words. They watered down
the purest of intentions
the most primal of needs.
I
preferred the eyes and their silent speech.
Yours,
for one, so round and brown
were staring beneath the cloth
that mantled my mounds
yearning for them to suckle
your mouth
at the moment
the mouth of your flesh and blood
when you’d taken me to your
cavern.
At
once I hated those unwearied hands
for forging forks, for I had to say
why-thank-you
and crack some self-effacing joke
instead of taking your calloused palms
and letting them own
what your eyes could only ache for.
We
inched our way to the banquet
a couple strolling by the seashore
waves lapping at feet
the setting sun casting a pale glow
on blood-flushed cheeks.
Rice,
chicken, steak, pasta—with them
we filled our plates.
And
we came to the fish.
The
scaly creatures had been scorched whole
each big enough to fill a pair of
stomachs.
You
drove the tines across one
hacking white tissues with tiny strokes
the head jerking, the fins flapping
coming to life
as the spine snapped in two.
The
head you lay on your plate.
The
tail you left impaled on your fork.
I
knew it right away: half for First Man
the other for Rib.
I
needed not utter it. All the same
I did: Give it to me!
Your
head turned, but not my way.
Your
ears, I thought, must have missed
the sweet plea from my luscious lips.
The
voices around must have drowned out mine.
Or
was it that? You might be facing the other way
but your eyes were left on me.
It
must be, then, the fork forger in you
scared that the dragonfly would flee
when your fingers were a hairbreadth away
from pinching its tail.
I
wipe away your cares. I gave you a smile
no less tempting than an apple
ripe for the picking. I said, Hey.
You
answered, Here, sweetie
and put the fish on the plate
of the girl on your other side.
I
had not so much as gaze
on the black bag lying in the corner
until the device it contained
blasted in my face.
She
had been there, too, by the seashore
her eyes and yours not meeting
her fingers and yours not intertwined
her sleeve not grazing your bare
arms.
It
was enough that the sand on her wake
told of a pair of feet
dancing off into the sunset.
So
I had to crack some self-effacing joke.
I
had to show you the half of me
that took the world as a stage
for vaudeville shows
while the other half flogged itself
for forgetting that First Man and Rib
had been plucked from the grove
and thrown into a zoo
in a heap of banished couples
who had to find each other
in a game with muddled rules.
