Constance
Constance shows me the Kodachromes
of her Peace Corp stint.
Standing always among huts,
tall and grave
above the smiles
of black children in rags,
herself like a totem
carved of mahogany
topped with a mane of seal black hair.
Always that dress,
a billow of daylight sky
emblazoned with batik zodiac
crossed by meteor fishes.
Constance shows me the black and white,
a strange monochrome self bent over,
gripping a long wooden pestle,
grinding in an oblong mortar
She says perhaps
I was thinner then,
I ate a lot of dried fish
and manioc.
Miss Lonelyhearts in a smart suit
Constance lifts her glass.
Scotch curls around itself
like an animal asleep.
Held in her regard
as under the twitching paw
of that sleeping animal,
a bridegroom stands
dressed all in white.
