Portrait of the Author as Raoul

Today I write about the house
of the body and about myself,

its shadowy proprietor,
coming and going.

Above the street, beside a fan
and a half-inch of bourbon

floating in a tumbler, someone's
white face pokes a hole

in a dark window. It's me,
in Raoul's body.

The rain stings the window
and the nothing beyond.

The rain throbs steadily
as the heart's dull return and lob.

Bending over the woman on the bed
Raoul says, Take off your dress.

I'll take my dress off, the woman says.
And then the sibilant whisper

of a black silk frock.
(A what?)

Frock. On the floor.
Also hosiery. Also black.

Suddenly naked or wearing
only flawless technique

and the dark eyes of staring
breasts, the story ends

either (A)

Bending over her
beautiful and tragic face

against the pillows, Raoul says,
Oh Lynn, Lynn you bring me to my knees.

or (B)

Gazing up into my own
beautiful and tragic face, I say

Oh Raoul, You bring me to my knees.

--Lynn Emanuel