For Madeleine Bourdouxhe, For Faith Evans 


Your sharp little pencil,

its fine lines slice

deftly through the dishes,

the prepared meals, the niceties.

 

Where the fleshy heart of intellect

pulses on the undefined

frontline of desire.

You are a new Sun on an unexpected morning.

 

Not reading French, I read you in French

and grapple the ghost of your clever hands,

prod recesses which surface with re-viewing

and trust to Faith the translation which haunts the shadows of me.

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