The Couple

The woman stands on tiptoe to kiss the man and for a moment,

with their twin-teal backpacks, parkas, and other gear—

they look like one new creature. A mutation.

Seated in La Rosita their gear guards the table

where they sip cafe con leche and lean forward,

sitting tall, pelvises tilted forward,

to talk—whisper?—their physical closeness

almost embarrassing (but to whom?) at this early hour—

light rivering in her chestnut hair,

their foreheads almost touching as they sit

further forward straddling their chairs

toes pressed down, heels up, wrists crossed;

a posture almost too intimate for a public space

at breakfast but somehow right in the Spanish café.

She says that while it is absurd to sell forsythia

it is a small miracle to buy cactus

on 107^th Street and Broadway.

(If they’re strangers in Manhattan

they seem more at home than I’ve ever been.)

They listen to the brisk chatter and clatter of plates

and music from the Spanish station

which now plays “Yellow Submarine”—

universal language?—“our friends are all aboard.”

They study the menu and note

the beautiful sounds

words like huevos and arroz

make for eggs and rice. The generous

syllabic count and vowel length

seem like an echo for their love. And their desire

to linger. (Other eyes

are on them, not only mine.)

They have drawn

the morning from a sea

of newsprint—in at least three

languages—toward their window seat.

The light changes along with the brisk pace of the walkers.

Someone in a tan Mackintosh reaches out to hail

a yellow cab, while the sun gilds

the fire escapes and people rise

energetically from their beds.

Don’t their eyes tire of each other?

Or is it not the eyes that tire?

They’re not looking, they’re drinking,

communicating through their skin

several inches apart.

Love can’t be trusted.

But that doesn’t mean it isn’t real.

They linger over coffee; he strokes

the back of her neck; she doesn’t feel

impelled to look up or stop but, later,

she kisses him behind the ear.

And in the mountains there is

snow melting to get down from the heights

to pour through the clefts in the twisted

rocks: natural arches, obstacles—horseshoe shapes.

And in the plains there is

a dropping of the shoulder-armor,

a tingling in the hip sockets, so that even a chance touch

at the hipbone startles the center and starts

a slow convulsion—

release of two creatures

(peculiarly, perilously at odds),

used to training their gaze

on the peripheries, like this

bicycle tethered to a parking meter,

orange handlebars, silver trunk like a treasure chest

perched—not locked—on a wrought iron ledge

fixed over the chrome wheel-casings—

blue shadow-dappled twig-littered canopies,

or the small tantalizing cursive c

in the blue neon soft as silk, announcing

café Equense

where the couple might return in the voluptuous dark.

The dark, quietly vibrating like a Mouth Harp,

or her—noiseless—breathing…or,

when they are lost in Olmsted’s

misty, labyrinthine rambles

and, framed by traffic, they pause

beside the lake in the dank air

where the water is still,

another

world from the blood-running pavement,

the meat-packing plants

gray and dour below the rotting piers—

warped—(and will they be replaced

with fresh wood or fazed out with poured

concrete that knows no give or take—no—swelling—…?)

What can love repair?

By what force of love

can they imagine themselves beyond

the squalor that surrounds them

onto another plane

blessed and blessing!

Who invented ecstasy?

What man or woman

first walked around

with its burden?

Cold shelter from the street,

among the bronze

mailboxes, inside the bright red—

freshly painted—door jambs.

He picks her up under the buttocks,

she arches her thighs around his hips,

plants her feet on the tiles:

tongues firm, yet tentative,

learning their own momentum;

(the rubbery wall of her mouth

takes him further in and in.)

Tongue and tongue, freckle and freckle,

tears, shuddering, swelling

in the places where they used to ache,

“ain’t no cure,”

knowing this touch,

this grave flicking

of tongues could never

be repeated, or knowing

it could—

knowing it in another consciousness.

He strokes her neck at the junction

where the occipital bone and cervical spine

cross, engage, spark;

coccyx tingles, cock rises toward

her, not into her, through her, to her;

rises as he plies

the inside of her ass and thighs,

or rubs the crevice where her right

forefinger and thumb divide,

stroking her cheek, or the hollow below her earlobe,

ankle bone, clavicle,

tonguing every millimeter,

until sea dissolves into sky

(their raft turns over

in warm water and they are that water,

and bob, afloat, buoyant;

at rest in secret knowledge of each other’s darknesses…

and now he could weep.)

But there is no ice in the water where they would roil and tumble,

and where avenues welcome those who walk hand in hand,

gait easy, backpacks half-full,

half empty—

the sun coming out now, as if synchronized to their desires—

and as the runners circle the reservoir

they lower their eyes to adjust to the light

bouncing off the water to ignite

the cinders; the green through the dead-

ice capped leaves;

a small curve, an indent on the track

gleams like a bracelet,

before an azure haze takes over.

It gets warm. She has to peel her Anorak.

She cups her hand over her eyes

in the light and wind off the reservoir,

to see the easy arcs the gulls make as they spiral upward

over the all-angle roller coaster of the rooftops,

in the comforting thud of other feet,

as if lulled by the sound of a lover’s heartbeat;

danger, in

distraction; she must kick the chain-link fence in order to set

off again, get back into the stream, put her mind back into her body;

her body: slender; deceptive.

There is a power in it she has always known. And feared.

Or feared others would fear.

But it’s difficult, with others, always—just how to say it?

Necessary to hold some one thing back.

Whom could she trust to let it out?

It might scare her. (Scare him.)

Dawn, a smudge of charcoal, lifted by noon

and his body, as if heliotropic,

was drawn toward the flares of lilacs,

and now he knew to move cautiously,

keeping his eyes on the ground to not,

as he has done several times, catch his foot on

a stone or root cluster and fly off, gashed.

He’s relieved when night comes on.

He doesn’t need his eyes to know

swallows congregate on the stark, bare limbs.

The darkness grows through the darkness

of that winter tree.

Soon they will be one

and no one will see them.