Failed Essay on Loving a Man Who Loves Money, Or: Autobiography as Class Traitor, Or: Capitalism (A Love Story?)
1.
On that street corner that day
a trap sprung by me
uncrafted yet executed perfectly
as if I meant to snare
a millionaire (oh but I read in the paper
you’re more than one)
as if I meant anything by it—
in fact I was retwining
my scarf, fussing my torn jacket sleeve
in the spiky cold
and a smile upon lifting my eyes
to the man opposite
was a smile upon lifting my eyes.
2.
Unbuttoning un-
twining,
coat away, clothes away, in my room
reduced, I was
so fast down
to skin, so quick
to tell which parts
of me were most
precious I did
away with manners
knowing I was
taking
you in.
3.
It’s only
a man rich in happiness
who could say We met
by chance that loves art.
If I gave you the cloaked
portions of my history
like the history of the world scabbed
and ugliest drawn close—
Along with chance the gods spared
time to create fortune and misfortune
before they set my life swinging.
Someone, careless, left
its balance unchecked.
4.
No one is born
in the back of a van
swaddled by plastic bags,
as no one
gulps Kool-Aid,
streaks cherry powder
on her naked body,
cavorts with a black pig
in a blow-up pool,
as no one accepts
what red marks
a father gives,
as no one burns
beloved books
for heat
in a winter of shoes pierced
with holes like burns
from an old man’s plump cigar
as no one rubs an old
man in a cigar bar
for steak and sleep
after a day tour
of supermarkets
palming and praying
as in
no one
and everyone is there someone
to blame:
a life’s single moment of privileged
knowledge—
oh, this is a system.
5.
The second time we met
a new scarf a new coat
greeted me and I strained to take
the measure of your memories like gold and silver
fish in a store window flashing
their fins.
But you were unclothing un-
twining redoing it all till it was done.
And my memories too when
for a time
your hands slipped
across my body
as the new king
probes the borders
of his realm
and stretches his arms
to catch the sun
on the morning of first
possession.
6.
Since then
you my almoner,
no, my
liege, though till now
how little I grasped
my danger,
concealed by the ease
with which you
thriftless give and give:
generosity
is debt lying in wait
or trap unsprung, your word
given: never it shall be.
The cherries
thaw-crazed
are petaling, a pretext
for you to guide me
to oyster-pink branches
unculled for blooms.
The bouquet is the tree: spring’s first improvident gift.
7.
Of your wealth,
how savage how swift the urge
to dirty it—
I have put my lips to you.
I have hummed.
I have lain awake.
Your life
itself
belongs only
to you, who
know nothing
of daily pains
and the trouble
of making yourself used
to each one in turn,
you who can
do anything,
so you’ve been taught,
you who I makebelieve
will make the gods
accept my wish to credit
a world
by your hands
shaped and furnished
because there is too much
I have always
wanted
and just as you yes lift me
effortless
to climax,
unloosed
my hair tangles your hands
till I unknot it
and I unknot it
as I’ve done
many things
to detach myself
from pleasure.
