Ménage à Trois
I know by the sound of the cello that I’m in for something
with black orchids in it,
which is to say a fantasy
for grown-ups
in wonderville.
I sit up front
near the edge.
The conductor
loops her wand,
a magician,
the wonderful cellist
stabbing arpeggios.
Look at them.
I lean toward the two
of them even if I don’t
want to. They’ve got
me in their shine.
Gone to the moon on a G string theirs is an affair burnished
with musky notes,
copper sweat in the air,
music’s math aroused,
such goddam parity
in a hum sliced up neat.
Look at them.
Two halves of an equation
that describes love
and desire with wand
and cello. L =
something squared
with heat in it
and D, a field
lit up clean and
raw. Flowers in a
black storm. The three of us
triangled at heart. Tangle of orbits in a crowded room.