Lyn Lifshin
Sleeping with Lorca
It’s not true, he never chose women.
I ought to know. It was Grenada and
the sun falling behind the Alhambra was
flaming lava. I could say I was
too but some things should be left unsaid.
But I remember his fingers on the buttons
at the back of my neck, my skin burned
as he fumbled with rhinestone and pearls.
I want you breathed into my neck though
perhaps he was whispering Green,
green I want you green. How little he
needed to impress me with his poems.
One English term paper with them and I
was naked, taken. It wouldn’t matter if
he had a pot belly or stank of garlic.
My jeans were a puddle around my
knees. I was the gored bull, hypnotized
by moves I’d only imagined but never
believed would enter me. There’s
more you might coax me to say but
for now, it’s enough I can still smell the
green wind, that 5 o’clock in the afternoon
that would never be another time
Do I Have to Really Write About What Seems Most Scary?
Isn’t it enough I’ve fought against
it, ballet classes every day,
often more than one. Do I have
to tell you I was stunned by the
letter from a woman who says “now
in the gym the men stop looking.”
Do I have to joke “pull the plug if
I can’t do ballet,” laugh when a
friend says “ I didn’t sleep with him
because I’d have to get undressed.”
Do I have to remember my mother
saying she’d rather be dead than
lose her teeth? Have to know if I
stay slim, size zero in ultra sexy
Victor’s Secret jeans without
more fat my face will look less
lovely. I think of that friend who
says she doesn’t worry about what
poem she’ll read but what she
will wear. Another says she wants
plastic surgery but doesn’t think
it’s right for someone in the arts,
shouldn’t she care about loftier things?
I think of another woman who willonly be photographed in certain
positions. Do I have to tell you what
I’m thinking about isn’t death?
When I Think of the Dark Mare
of the sickly king
looking for a burial place
among ancient tombs in
the country. When he
finally chose a grave
belonging to a virgin
princess from an old
ancestral clan,
opens the tomb and
the young woman’s
remains are touched by
sun, her bones suddenly
change into a black
horse that gallops off in
to the desert. A magician
races after the enchanted
creature and after many
days and many trials
he covered the desert
and comes to grasslands
on the other side where
he discovers the rarest
of treasures: the mare has
led him to the lost keys
of Paradise
Ballet du Maurais
Huge hall, Brahms Hall
40 dancers could easily
move in. I grab my drink,
take an aspirin. Most of
the dancers in their 20's,
don’t get the combination.
Some older dancers do.
I quickly learn the steps
are done to the right then
the left then the right
then the left again. One
woman runs for a drink but
the instructor yells some
thing like, “No, wait, later.”
I haven’t had a class for
two weeks so nothing is
sore but I’m out of shape
still he comes up to me, says
“Bon, tres, bon.” I feel my
face turn rouge. I’m feeling
I’m the only one tho there
are 40, 50 in the room, “Lyn,”
he says, motions for me to
come up to the front. I had
planned to stay in the back
ground, be invisible, just
get thru. But suddenly it’s
“Leeyn, up here” and while
I wasn’t sure of the words,
it was clear he picked me to
lead, demonstrate the adagio.
Nothing in the class could get
better I was sure but he kept me
up there, in the center – I could
have been on stage. I wanted
everything over to not spoil it.
It was like making love in the dark
with a man who to your astonish-
ment seems to think you’re what
he wants, that you’re the
one so special – but you don’t
want to wake up with him
in too bright light after the lull
of candles and wine
I Want to Be Cat Like
wild, nocturnal and sleek, fierce and, strong.
I want to curl, days, in the fork of a red oak,
blend with bark and then, stealthy and wild, set out
for night prowls. I want to hunt in the thickets
of brittle roses, about to pounce. Don’t try to
hurt me, I’ll tear your lips and ear, you won’t
forget my fury. No one can tame me, only a special
love has any chance to keep me. Many lust for
my thick fur, silky body. I want to be daring, grow
claws that will leave a mark. If I want to
curl against you, you can’t resist tho you know
I can leave without a sound. My origins, unknown
You might have guessed I want to stay but I’m a
vagabond by nature. I want to yowl and hiss, spit at
what doesn’t please me, be elusive as steam. I want
to allure, be coy as a 1920's screen idol in a
pleated skirt. I’ll turn on my mate, after he gives me
what I’m after. It’s my nature. I want to attack, run
faster than lightning, catch what I need on the run.
My fawn skin, long beautiful legs haunting your
dreams as I creep up cautiously and noiselessly to bite
your neck. Be my prey, try to use me, lust for
my fur and not what’s inside it: my teeth will leave a
hieroglyph where your heart was no one still living can
still read
Lyn Lifshin's recent prizewinning book (Paterson Poetry Award) Before Its Light
was published Winter 1999-2000 by Black Sparrow Press, following their publication of Cold Comfort
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