09.18.06., Paris . rue St. Lazare, Trinite, Paris. France

You have no opinion of either.

The soft tap-shoes or the gentle ballet-slippers with sweet ribbons that tie about the ankles.

Either / Or. Some blankness, lack of feeling or thought. Care.

The problem here, after twelve plus years, I know too well your eye for detail.

Recall how you once recounted the exact cast of one woman's skin, hair.

The hang of her pony-tail – even her shoes – clothes.

(white pumps, floral dresses, jeans, white-oxford, Converse sneakers, white pumps sometimes)

Others? One lover, also in France , with rounded breasts

with nipples so subtle you could hardly make them out.

Another – she of the red scarf. We all know of the red scarf.

We even visited the building where they finally broke the spell and fucked.

A cold and broken hallelujah, wasn’t that the line? Well then, Hallelujah.

I never did find out if anything was resolved. Does it matter?

Of course, we are not to look in the past. It’s not mine anyway.

But my tap-shoes – This is different. This is my past.

These are an echo of my past – so this then different.

Yes, my lover - savior, protector, kindred, and cousin, that’s the worst part.

It was he who untied those black ribbons. It was he who left me barefoot on the stair.

It was he who said “Shhh.” It was he guarded our secrets. It was both who kept them.

He whose eyes like mine, patina green, pin-prick black.

And in that gaze I found recognition. Permission.

Not narcissism this. Just belonging. Knowing.

It was he who had a preference, and each time he chose, he chose me.

And in this affirmation, and yes, my cousin.

You hate me for this. You want I feel the should and ought.

The sin of it. Some need of confession.

I never needed it. I have no need now.

The only absolution I sought was there all along –

in each kiss, a prayer, a thousand hushed amens.