I heard a woman
state once that because
he peered so closely
at a stream of ants
on the damp, naked
limb of a fruit tree,
she fell for her husband.
She wanted to be studied
with that attention,
to fascinate as if
she were another species,
whose willingness to be
looked at lovingly
was her defense, to be
like a phenomenon
among leaves, a body
that would make him leave
his body in the act of loving,
beautifully engrossed.
I can’t remember what
she looked like. I never met
the husband. But leaning close
to the newly dropped
persimmon in the wet grass,
and the huddle of four
or five hungry satyrs,
drab at first glance, the dull
brown of age spots, fitting
away in too many
directions, too quickly
to count exactly, small
as they are, in the shade
at the tree’s base; leaning
out of the sunlight, as if
I could take part in the feast there,
where, mid-September,
the persimmons drop,
so ripe and taut a touch
can break the skin;
leaning close enough
to trouble the eye-spotted
satyrs, no bigger than
eyelids, and the fritillaries,
their calmer companions,
like floating shreds of fire,
whose feet have organs
of taste that make their tongues
uncoil in reflex with
goodness underfoot,
I thought of that woman’s
lover, there on my belly
in sun and shadow,
and wished I could be like that.
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