This must be where you live now, I mean really live—
your new house. It bathes us in yellow light—
the color saffron. It suffuses everything.

Standing in a jasmine robe, you welcome me
to the base of your low oak platform—
steps like a stage. You motion me there,
gingerly open

The brass lock to a mahogany chest. Under low
piles of flax, you uncover two teak statues, unwrap,
hand them to me. I examine each one slowly, handle
with care— great wonder. Their flat features stylized,

Extraordinary from Africa, Central America nowhere
perhaps—surely priceless— a scent of lemons in
their contours. These smooth ones may have been
your children— a long while past. Looking up,

You placed your arm around the chestnut body of an old
man merged with a cello. Kindly, you uncoil your elbow,
wrist, allow me take the cello down to dance. Lightly, I tell
how I prefer instruments to men

Who never do such things for me. The more I dance,
the more light flows into your room, even flatware is gold,
drapes warble like larks.