AFTER MONSIEUR MELON.
As you drain the glass you
Remember Monsieur Melon
Saying, he couldn’t leave his
Wife, not even for you, not
As things were, not with the
New baby on the way, and
So he went on, sitting on the
Bed in the apartment he rented
For you, where he’d just shafted
You, where the stains on the
Sheets still remained, and placed
One excuse after the other as if
He were building a brick wall
To keep you out. You sip the
Last few drops of wine from
The glass. The room is empty
Now, the bed almost ghostly,
His perfume still clings, still
Lingers, his last juices seeping
From you like a slow death.
You recall the last drink in the
Champs Elysees the night before,
The final tour of the Louvre, the
Way he held your hand, the way
He squeezed it, kissed it. Memories
Were like old museum pieces,
Fine to look at, but dead, dead
Pages. You pour another glass
Of wine and sit by the bed, try
To sort the mess in your head,
The shattered dreams, the knife
In the back, the wound between
The thighs. Mother had warned:
Beware, married men never leave.
You remember her, the sour words,
The bitterness of her marriage, the
Wasted youth. Men will always lie
To you, she said, they never tell the
Truth. You drain the glass, feel the
Sourness on the tongue, the muzzy
Head; you gaze around the room,
Blowing curtains, sense the future
Loneliness, stained sheets, empty bed.
