The Vanishing Subtext

The failed old poet asked me if I wanted to drink
And I told him that the old Russian shadow followed me
Into the gleeful moments, if he still had those, anyway
The answer was no, I wouldn’t enjoy myself

But please, but please, he said and mumbled something
About the baby Jesus and the disingenuousness of Neruda
And about the disappearance of success and the quality of automobiles
In Cuba

So I drank with him. When he asked me if he could lay me a kiss, no
Sir I told him, your breath smells of poison leather, cigs, and your beard
Plus, did I mention I’m heterosexual, somewhere I lied to him but life
Has the character of water in pure nightlight, and I allowed him
And he changed into the delicate figure with legs as long as skyscrapers
And lips as green as wet vegetation and he asked me if it had ever occurred
To me that my youth, at age 25, was curling up the inside of his raincoat
At any rate, I’m heterosexual too, he said, and I only wanted you to be a woman

We walked across a bridge and he confided that he feared one day he would stop wishing
For death because that would mean He actually might happen.
There was a Chekhov story, he couldn’t remember, but the horses, the shadow
Yes, I said, I’ve always believed Chekhov to be a woman, too, though he married
Himself, didn’t he, and declared he was the lead actress two years before he died.