Mulciber

by Lynn Crosbie

Michael takes me to the cabana;
I am hot and flustered.
The Havana sun beats on our striped umbrella,
I drink banana daiquiris and Michael sips
club sodas, cool and self-possessed.

Why don’t we ever talk, I ask, flustered by his
attention, his quiet kindness.

I was so mad at you, I begin, and his patient smile
disarms me. My admission settles, the residue of pulp
and ice. Another! I call, rattling my glass. Please.

Mama said I wasn’t hers, I tell Michael. That I was
left by the Gypsies. He holds my hand.

As he swoons in the nightclub he will seize
the railing, deciphering my plans.

The clock is easing to midnight: lovers embrace
and stardust falls.

Michael grabs me amid the pandemonium and kisses
me, hard, on the lips.

You broke my heart, he says.
I take flight, my mouth bruised,
for he is righteous, and he hath
taken arms against perfidy:
he, who is like God.