“Now,” she says, 72, hair just bleached and
set, a little shakey in her new sandals, “Now...
it’s Spring..I’m not Spring, you’re not Spring..but
let it rub off on us,try a little rubbing entre
nous/ between ourselves..,” pulling me into
the bedroom, two hundred dead in Paris, three
in East Lansing today, everyone else gone,
I don’t even know her name, kind of just invited
to the party by accident (a mutual friend in Tucson
who couldn’t make it), “I’ve been a widow for one
year as of today, that’s the real WHY behind the
party, I lied about my birthday, all I’ve been
thinking about for the last year is my deathday,”
the bedroom huge, the bed pure black satin luxury,
snow, rain, rain snow, the grass knows, already
midsummer green...and so do I.