Suzanne

My Suzanne camps under her tent of hair;
an unfixed face, not set, ready
to take dictation from every feeling
flitting past. You love her mobile mouth.
She is an event. You are there; you've paid.
You keep a certain distance from the stage.

She gossips and gesticulates,
hands bossed with rude amber rings
punctuating her runs of steady words.
You don't interject, you protect and bar.
You know that she's half crazy,
and that's why you wanna be there,
for as long as she doesn't exhaust
the oxygen out of the air;

she feeds you tea and oranges
that come all the way from China,
and she lights three or four tall candles.
Her luminous face chases her words,
flying, carelessly, ceaselessly flying.
She is not a danger, to you.
You sprawl, happy to be outshone.



(The lines in italics are borrowed from Leonard Cohen's lyrics "Suzanne."