At the Musee Rodin I looked for us
among the lovers. We were never that
fierce, a couple twinned in flight
white marble bodies all delicate curve
back to back, buttock to buttock,
lying across air. And yet.
How those arms reach over his head
seize her shoulder, her breast,
how she strains beyond his hands
free and fleet as a bird. They were once
a world lost, abandoned flesh, and in that
searing rush how could they not
fall apart? Look at mouths averted,
bodies caught in space. He is cast over her
facing the heavens, she is facing Earth.
Tell me, of the two which is love?