The Standard
1 Minute Read Time
At the Standard they pay a man to lathe olive wood
into the softball-sized spheres they load the braziers with
in the heat of early afternoon. They douse them with gas, touch
a match: and the guests with their crow faces
and sky-colored suits emerge
to sip from tiny eggshell glasses.
Orchids lean out from jute baskets lashed
to the palm trunks, lit from below they flutter
like moths—undesperate, and the guests
look exactly the same age, their fingertips linger
on each other’s forearms as they form tender
careless sentences, which diffuse,
and though even their shivers are languorous, delicious, Eugenio says
you can tell from the way they dip
the big shrimps in green sauce and nibble
the creamy meat down, an inch at a time
that they never have sex;
and if I observe how they let their napkins drop
on the gravel, how they drift down the path to dinner
I’ll know who has just recognized himself in a stranger,
calmly; whose torso is squeezed by a wordless joy;
who feels like a child; who a cloud;
and who aches, as she steps back onto the cool tiles of the arcade
in thin sandals, to be broken down again,
annihilated, into a thinking rubble.
Read more from Issue 15.1.
