Here On Midsummer’s River, We So Elegantly Fall

At your party I will stand
Compliant as a hat rack
Carefully holding parasols and scarves
(An iron kind of evening — neither cool nor bright)

You will swan about the room
Medusa bleak and breaking arms
Smiling with an executioner’s grace
Bodice laced
With an hourglass desperation

I am still angular as adolescence
By the kitchen door
Holding these strange and lurid canapés
(Pierced through and with an iridescent shine
like the mortised remains
of blue admiral butterflies)

Crying for your midnight emancipation 
(Your powdered mien begins to crack like glass)
In the beveled edge of gilded mirrors
Catching signs of extraordinary life
For an exit, feint
Collapsing in three miles of sequinned cloth
As if you were the last enchanted avé
On midsummer’s river

Of course
It is not yet daylight savings here
My hands too full of walking sticks and woollen mittens
I wear my face at 3 a.m. (or quarter past)
And watch
Letting you fall slowly to the floor