A memory from imperial days. I'm twenty;
choking on peacock feathers and spun sugar,
to the balcony I escape, and find him lighting
a cigarette. Smoke threads his lips, the Cupid's
bow delicate and sharp: I see his laughter
before I hear it. He leans against the railing
with swanlike grace, his violinist's fingers
ash-stained. "What happened? Did the cruel duchess
insult your pride?" he says, his pale eyes languid.
"Or are you all worn out from waltzing, darling?"
In lieu of a reply, I let the moonlight
pierce my uncovered shoulders to the muscle.
"You must be cold. Here, take this," he says, draping
his greatcoat over me, the wolfskin collar
reproaching me for letting men go hunting
while women sit at home and sew. "You're crying!"
I'm not. The smoke is making my eyes water.
It's just like him to see a melancholy
where there is none: in schoolchildren, in weddings,
in stars, in pots of ink. Keeping my silence
I snatch the cigarette away and kiss him,
then flee, not looking back at his expression.
Light from the ballroom interrupts the moonbeam
I leave him standing in. Now look who's crying.