Where are they now, the women you loved?
Eight of them sip Bordeaux, standing on your lawn
the day you are reduced to ashes, they to tears.
You loved women the way true explorers
loved Africa, moved by difference;
to find the source because it must be there.
Now, eyeing each other, they watch their words
and wonder what happened to the photographs:
Venus, Olympia, Origin of the World.
In each grey head, a girl unfolds herself from
tissue wrapping, relives Lake Naivasha, or the time
you made love thirty thousand feet above Dubrovnik:
lost girls, the ones who might have loved you differently;
who can’t think for the life of them… when no one since
has made them feel so beautiful, or laugh so.