La Fin de Chéri

(Influence from; La Fin de Chéri, Colette 1926. )

51ZDAW395XL

Darling

one day you will either strike yourself out

with an exact deepening cut

or own the world with vinegar fingertips

coloring upturned lips

looking through letters in search of single word

to describe the ecstasy of youth

though before all these things I had

you first

before you knew what you were

and only lay in my arms shivering with

the desire of a young boy caught in his lust

one day when I am old

I will remember your beauty and capture

wound around your pomegranate mouth like cold leaves its burn and sun turns boys to gold

then looking into half drunk glasses and fallen buttons I shall

smile crookedly at my mad fortune

if fortune is the word

to describe amusing memories

when boys knew nothing of themselves

when girls were powerful and roamed their needs

like hungry bees seek nectar and we all rummage the pockets of our clothes

hoping for a missed penny

for time may lie against us

a sharpness in daylight glinting

but for those brief afternoons

when we have yet to inherit ourselves

know nothing of the plight of fading

with each wrought year

you looked to me for learning

I knew a little more by virtue of bad experience

and my belly full of wine and violence

turning them to my own understanding

touching you as your mother would

then something different, deeper, untaught

a house with many shutters

open one, touch the countenance of my pearl

you sighed

just like a girl opening herself

your legs as smooth as mine

your lips fuller and pursing toward

the need

I bowed sleekly

not because I honored you

but to feel the excitement quickening

against your muscled thighs

gathering that brief surge of fickle love

before it spilt and grew

sweetly cold between us

I felt that first

acrid taste of power

rolling underneath scotch blankets starved of end

not my kind yet

you were a beautiful boy

soft against me pliant by longing

I held this over our heads like a shawl

blocking out harsh light

inspecting its temporary reflection

your wistful elongate pursed in quiver

a silver arrow ready to pierce

any who chance your heart

and in years to come when

my hands are tired of making shadows

I will think of you and amuse myself

the girl who inherited memories and made

palaces of them

you can be my Chéri and

I, the woman who painted solace to your

first

ache