She seemed at once herself and her own reflection
shimmering on the surface of clear water
where fleeting shadows twisted in the depths.
I found it hard admitting what I saw.
She seemed to be a ghost, though that sounds crazy.
Oddly, I wasn’t scared — just full of wonder,
watching this thing I knew could not exist,
this woman standing by her dressing table,
translucent, insubstantial, but still there,
and utterly oblivious of me.
First to be haunted, then to be ignored!
Her back toward me, she started to undress.
Now I was panicked and embarrassed both.
I spoke much louder. She made no response.
Now wearing only a long silk chemise,
she turned toward me, still strangely indistinct,
the fabric undulating, as if alive.
I felt her eyes appraise me, and I sat
half paralyzed as she approached the bed.
Here I was face to face with a dead soul,
some entity regathered from the dust,
returned like Lazarus from the silent tomb,
whose mere existence, right before my eyes,
confounded my belief there could not be
an afterlife. Think what this meeting represented—
a skeptic witnessing the unexplained.
I could have learned the secrets of the dead
if there are any secrets, which I doubt.
So how did I address this revenant,
this traveler from the undiscovered country,
who stared at me with dark, unblinking eyes?
I caught my breath, got on my feet, and said—
nothing at all. The words stuck in my throat.
We stood there face to face, inches apart.
Her pale skin shined like a window catching sunlight,
both bright and clear, but chilling to the touch.
She stared at me with undisguised contempt,
and then she whispered, almost in a hiss,
“You don’t belong here. No, you don’t belong here.”
She slowly reached to touch me, and I ran
leaving behind both Shakespeare and my shoes.
Mara was still awake when I arrived.
The lamp was on. The fireplace ablaze.
And she stretched naked under satin sheets.
“So, you’ve come back?” she yawned with mock ennui,
then added with a smirk, “You weren’t gone long.”
I didn’t say a word of what I’d seen.
We used to sleep in one another’s arms,
our two slim bodies interlaced like hands.
That night I held her, feeling our hearts beat—
first hers, then mine — always out of sync,
and in the dark I thought, I don’t belong here,
I don’t belong here. Slipping out of bed,
I quickly dressed, and what I couldn’t wear
I left behind — the clothes, the books, the camera,
no longer mine. What a surprise to first feel
the liberations of divestiture.
I moved with such new lightness down the stairs,
watched by mute saints and marble goddesses.
Then out the door. I closed it quietly.
The lock clicked shut. Good-bye to both my ghosts.
I made it to the county road by dawn
and hitched a ride on an old dairy truck.
“What happened to your shoes?” the driver said.
“No, better yet, don’t tell me. Just get in.”
I climbed in, and one road led to another.
And now I’m in your bar. That’s probably not
the story you expected from a monk,
delivering brandy from the monastery.
Not all of us began as altar boys.
I’ve been there fifteen years. I like the drill—
Poverty, Chastity, and Growing Grapes.
The archbishop calls my port a miracle.
Don’t tell His Grace, but I still doubt there is
an afterlife. That’s not why I stay there.
This is the life I didn’t want to waste.
STYLE
I.
Just look at me. Isn’t it obvious?
I have no style. I’m just a human blur.
On me expensive clothes look second-hand.
They droop or sag. The color’s never right.
I wear the wrong apparel to the party.
I pick the dullest item on the menu.
Each haircut brings some new humiliation.
That’s why I always loved to visit Tom.
He had the perfect sense for what was perfect.
He never wore a sports coat or a shirt
That didn’t seem exactly right — not just
For him but for the time, the place, the people.
It wasn’t just his clothes, but how he smiled
Or shook your hand or listened to a joke.
I’ve never seen a person comparable,
Except in movies of a certain era,
The sort where Cary Grant casually enters
In clothes of such exquisite tailoring
The cameras caress him like a lover,
Or Garbo lifts a cocktail to her lips
So that you, sitting in the dark, can taste
A dozen heartbreaks in a single gesture.
I know exactly what you’re thinking now—
My story and my friend seem superficial.
You don’t take people like us seriously,
Though every day you pass us on the street.
What does style matter? Quite a lot, I say.
Style isn’t fashion. It’s knowing who you are
And how you hold yourself up to the world.
It’s the clear surface that lets you see the depths.
I wake up many mornings full of dread,
Knowing my life is not what I intended.
Just like my clothes, it doesn’t really fit.
(What was it I intended anyway?)
Most lives consist of choosing the wrong things.
We try to compensate by choosing more,
As if sheer mass bestowed integrity.
II.
We met in college. Never closest friends,
We always stayed in touch. I’ll never know
Just what he saw in me — perhaps an audience.
No, that’s unfair. I think it was pure kindness.
I stumbled through life losing jobs and girls,
Wasting the little money that I made.
Tom was a golden boy. While others climbed,
He took flight. His success was existentiaclass="underline"
It wasn’t what he did; he simply was
The way he was, which is to say, he was
Exactly what the business world wanted.
At thirty-two he started his own firm.
At thirty-five he took the venture public.
He prospered like one chosen by the gods.
His corner office seemed built on a cloud—
With miles of open sky and bright blue water
Shining through the glass walls above the bay.
So effortless and absolute his triumph,
Who could have guessed the way the story ended?
Tom put me on the list for all his parties.
I had no dignity. I always went,
Eager and underdressed. He had the trick
Of going to the limits of delight
While never overstepping to excess.
He booked the most astonishing locations—
The Rainbow Room at Rockefeller Center,
The Hall of the Great Whale, the Stock Exchange,
And the Egyptian Temple at the Met.
He turned each place into a sort of stage.
These parties made me feel as if I’d walked
Into the secret movie in my mind
Where I’m the star, and everything is bright,
Glamorous, and romantic — even me.
Tom dated a succession of tall beauties.
And then came Eden. I can’t be objective