bids me wear them, warm them, until evening
when I'll brush her hari. At six, I place them
round her cool, white throat. All day I think of her,
resting in the Yellow room contemplating silk
or taffeta, which grown tonight? She fans herself
whilst I work willingly, my slow heat entering
each pearl. Slack on my neck, her rope.
She's beautiful. I dream about her
in my attic bed; picture her dancing
with tall men, puzzled by my faint persistent scent
beneath her French perfume, her milky stones.
I dust her shoulders with a rabbit's foot,
watch the soft blush seep through her skin
like an indolent sigh. In her looking-glass
my red lips part as though I want to speak.
Full moon. Her carriage brings her home. I see
her every movement in my head... Undressing,
taking of her jewels, her slim hand reaching
for the case, slipping naked into bed, the way
she always does... And I lie here awake,
knowing the pearls are cooling even now
in the room where my mistress sleeps. All night
I feel their absence and I burn
CAROL ANN DUFFY (1955 - )
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