Poster

That it was cheap was not the only reason;

even for free, who needs a Vogue poster

of a lady in a long dress and a large hat

with a flowing veil, riding-side-saddle, of course-

a rearing zebra?

There must have been something, three

dollars worth of message units, speaking

to our slight impulse. Do I believe in her

elegance that sits upon wildness, rides it,

and draws upon it? Is the farouche chic?

But, no, she would be smiling. Her face is clearly

wistful-and the zebra, rearing, is trying

to throw her off, run free, and join the three

giraffes in the middle distance. Her seat is sure,

though under the long green skirts we may imagine

the muscles of her slender thigh tensed,

feel them straining in the bizarre dressage

of animal and spirit. Those contradictory graces

are joined in equipoise: the zebra's strength,

the power of that striped haunch, that arched neck,

dissipates into her veil; and she is sorry,

knowing, as the beast cannot, how long

their ride must be. She can never dismount,

can never be thrown.

He could canter off

to fall to a hungry lioness, and she

could grow fat, perhaps, and old, no doubt, and gossip

at the watering places of fashion.

But, no, she knows

she is only a poster, the hot hide under her ass,

a Platonic idea of lust. An idea blows

her veil; a real wind coming off the mountains

would whip the damned hat off...

If only it would!

Then something could happen-even something dreadful.

Which is to say, she doesn't believe in the zebra,

cannot imagine him, any more than he

has any idea what's up there on his back

but a body in a world of bodies, a beast

like him. He is certainly not impressed

by the silly beads about her neck, her shawl

of gauzy lime-green stuff. The bridle is real,

horse-hide or cow-hide, and the bit in his mouth

tastes of metal. He wants to spit it out.

His hoof marks scar the earth in dumb rage.

Of course, they're together, then, innocent and gorgeous,

fighting to master each other and the picture,

and each needing the other. If the wind

were real it would come alive and end in an instant

to serve, stopped-frame, as an image of earthly love.