Innocence by Olga Broumas

...for BL

Innocence by Olga Broumas

... the sound of one hand clapping

I.

Manita's the Queen. Love and Love
lying by her, one
on each side. I
am the Jester, the
smallest one, I roll
round the bed at Manita's feet, the floor
tangled with cast-off garments. I flick my sharp
tongue at Love. I adore
Manita
the Queen
at the foot of the bed, each hand so deep
in Love's collapsible caves. Manita kneeling
in the midst of Love.
Manita talking
with God.

II.

Manita talking with God. God
appears

among us, elusive, the extra
hand none of us - Love, Love, Jester, Queen -
can quite locate, fix, or escape. Extra
hand, extra
pleasure. A hand
with the glide of a tongue, a hand
precise as an eyelid, a hand with a sense
of smell, a hand that will dance
to its liquid moan.
God's hand

Loose on the four of us like a wind
on the grassy hills of the South.

III.

I take my Love to Manita. Swift-boned, green-
eyed, dressed in her dark skin and hair, I take my Love
on fire. Manita moans.
Manita's hands

flow
delicate as insects, agile
as fish, cool as the shifting water, the night-
quiet lake. I take my Love to her hands on
fire. She takes my Love.

IV.

She takes my Love to her passions, sweet
bruises on her dark skin, her nipples
sucked up like pears, the small
hand of God
inventing
itself again, wind
on Manita's hair. Neither
Love moves. Queen and the Jester the
merging shadows on wall and ceiling, the candle thick
as a young tree, bright
with green fire.
Manita's Love

opens herself to me, my sharp
Jester's tongue, my
cartwheels of pleasure. The Queen's own pearl
at my fingertips, and Manita pealing

my Jester's bells on our four
small steeples, as Sunday downs
clear in February, and God claps and claps
her one hand.