Friday, September 21, 2007


From the Archives (March 2005)

by Olga Broumas

She who loves roses must be patient
and not cry out when she is pierced by thorns.

In parody
of a grade-B film, our private
self-conscious soapie, as we fall
into the common, suspended
disbelief of love, you ask
will I still be
here tomorrow, next week, tonight
you ask me am I really
here. My passion delights

and surprises you, comfortable
as you’ve been without it. Lulled,
comfortable as a float myself in your real
and rounded arms, I can only smile
back, indulgently
at such questions. In the second reel—

a season of weeks, two
flights across the glamorous Atlantic, one
orgy and the predictable divorce
scenes later—I’m fading out
in the final close-up
alone. As one

heroine in this
two-bit production to the other, how long
did you, did we both know
the script
meant you to wake up doubting
in those first nights, not me, my daytime
serial solvency, but yours.

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