Like a nun recalled to her vows, prepared
for discipline and orderly habits (although
my studio is full of light, windows on two sides,
a view of pasture and mountains), I make up
my daybed. Surprised by a small heap
of condom wrappers on the floor by the wall—
a neat pile of droppings under a parakeet’s perch—
I leave them there.
I imagine this studio was last used by a man,
he entertained afternoons, respite from the tensions
of the creative act, creativity interruptus stored
in convenient sacks and abandoned. Libidinous
curiosity sends me to the list of previous occupants.
Why should a woman’s name cause dissonance—
cognitive, nominative, genital?
At the mailboxes she has left a folded paper
with her address, spread nonchalant, half over
the calling card of a man: like legs sprawled
lasciviously across a thigh. My last visit here,
so many wanted; so few obtained. An endless
circle of, I had thought, unsatisfied desire.
How did she manage these walls of glass?
Here at my singular desk, my back to the bed,
I toast her with my chaste cup of tea.
Who else could make poetry out of somebody else’s trash? I love Raby’s coinage of “genital dissonance” and her image of a “nonchalant” scrawl “like legs sprawled lasciviously across a thigh.” Raby has not only toasted the “previous occupant” but has also turned her into a muse. Bravo!