Читать книгу Tart Honey - Deborah Burnham - Страница 8

Catullus, wondering how to count the kisses

that would satisfy his lust for Lesbia,

suggests a number: the grains of sand between

Jove’s oracle in Egypt and some tomb

in Libya, or—less original—the numbered fields

of stars that try to light their furtive love.

We’ve loved so long, I forget what “furtive”

feels like, though years ago, we could kiss only

in dark rooms, dark fields, hiding the thin fire that leapt

through our legs and fingers.

Now, it’s one brisk, public kiss that makes me think

of those I won’t be tasting for a week or three,

that short kiss in airport traffic, stolen

while the cop stares, one brush against

your earlobe, then one more, quicker, drier

than our first, perhaps our last, this last thought

unthinkable, the necessary single

star that glitters, once so far away, now

right above us, behind the waning moon.