Supper wore a shawl of stars
mother, a stole with yellow pansies
The posture was superb
words gleamed with rightness
butterknives shone in their dishes like a well-loved swimming hole
gilt on dishes took up the light
butterflies shuddering where they lay
The shadows became deeper
Someone had lit candles
it made all the difference

Exeunt               I surrender to bed appealing to stomach pain
              too much cream in the bread pudding

But the lungs swell with perfume
almost burst with mallow, styrax, sweet rush
breathing from collarbones and breast-pockets of
travellers, performers, men who had once lived in the country,
women with only brothers, sailors, sailors!

What if we stay?
naive asked

The wise smiled and smoothed their hair
The night had been realised with nothing to be gained, all lost

Not too much cream, but fattened on beauty
came away from the table murmuring like fraying threads
Oh, we like to be anthropomorphic? let’s be anthropomorphic
Did you hear me? Too much cream I said
             —Mother, gauche, anachronistic and peeling off stockings
Her moustache the only thing catching the light
Too loud, radiating heat, fixing conversation like a bubble in glass
The stench drives me to the balcony

Her only virtue that endures is through memory
An evening, many evenings ago, poured across pushed-together tables like molasses
Guests swaying each to each over sweetmeats
revise her body at the table as sentiment
wrapped in shawls like a burial
laudanum head and a red string taut around her middle
till finally her head slackened and back retreated,
             with golden eyes on her hair.

Again!
Once again, with feeling!
                                        which one?

So this must be hell
where good opinion rests on salt and vapour
We forgive inclement weather!
Light a fire and dance!
Mind you look pleasant, apple-eyed and starry cheek
Do we look ruddy in the light, or all the more sallow?
Would it be a sin? I think so
This must be a special hell
A backwards glance or misplaced sigh is branded into pure fury or lust,
where someone lighting candles makes all the difference,
where neither love nor wrath is earned,
and all, invented