LEDA IN THE AFTERNOON

The penumbra in the Bargello keeps us from sky-light,

and for a time, the woman and the swan. I figure-eight

around her, once, twice. She is pleased nearly

to disgrace, knows nothing, yet, of the shame

that will be. Note her arm stretched back from the

breast, wrist idle to accept his neck's curve along

the belly, the brush of a nipple, her lids at half-flutter,

his canny rapture-- all trumpet: let me take it how I

can. I draw your hand to the place where the mouths

join, where he gentles in his open beak her lower lip,

unnatural conjunction, her knee up and urged to the wing,

feathers coaxing the inner skin, crush of down on thigh.

Afternoon, the hotel across the Arno, we roll the marble

table to the center of the tiles. You begin with your thumb,

sculpting the shape of wings over my lips, and as you lift

me to the pedestal, I gasp, waft up. You slip up my skirt in

front, the rest draping away like a wedding train, and I ready

to give you your berth. And then. From under a pillow, as if

awaiting your life this day, this instant, you have tucked one under

every bed in Tuscany, you take something white in your teeth. Arch

to the damp site where my skin dips the width of a finger to let the

limb move free, and slide your feather along it there. And there.

And there. Who are you now, my tiny Etruscan, my slick,

fluted column, my lady of ruin? Words beat around

the ear. And who am I? Something about this

I've guessed since the moment you bolted

the door, but as your neck glides up

toward the mouth, I feel

the fervor of flight,

swear I know air.

copyright Joy Passanante 1999