The Lucie Odes
V.
At your table, a slow rotation suggesting
permanence. By day, the dining room
served as an atelier where I prodded
and patched sentences, anchored at dry
salvages. By night, the apartment turned
salon of scientists, poets, unlonely widows,
an Olympic gymnast, a wry phlebotomist,
a felon. After tiring days at the lab, you
alchemized a perfect evening, converting
ordinary time into occasion, the planned
luck of good company. Girlish, we hung
glass baubles from the chandelier, sat
Dr. Fischer's ashy cigar by the window,
leavened the politics with poems, long
workdays with wine. I laughed, there,
in spite of myself. Dared to kiss your
regal forehead. Served as line chef,
steering clear of your stovetop's merry
burble. When we were alone, flopped
in bed or driving through the city,
listening to Aida or La Sonnambula,
I felt cherished as a comrade, confidant,
chérie. In our evident brokenness, love's
tacit fabric wove between us, incarnate.
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