To return to the place of your birth
is to be born again, but a body made of moondust
and fox fur can never be the light
that lives on water at dusk. Your mother

loved stroking your hair and singing a song
of flight. When you slept, the darkest halls
claimed her as their mistress. Night
was your only teacher. You learned redemption

is fool’s prayer. The cross around your neck
will not save you, neither will the one
on your back. The body yearns for an answer
to its suffering, but pleasure first arrives

as pain: a muffled Hallelujah, a frail hand
over the speaking heart. When your body
was bored, you stood barely clothed
in the April rain, waiting for the men

to come downstairs so your mother
could tuck you in. Soldiers spilled champagne
on the piano and the music slowed
to quarter notes. Another stopped in the doorway

to tie his shoe, and you saw what you thought
was blood on his collar. Once, you believed
no pleasure went unpunished, but now you know:
lust is a momentary stay against ruin. Kiss a man

to stop a minute. Touch his body to hide the hour.
Along the boulevard lined with the lowest glow,
you move the way your mother showed you.
Every dance is private. The body a beauty

unto itself. All curve and angle.
All skin and sinew and a desperate joy.