First time

First Time

Tonight,
because he's gone,
because the house light's dimmed,
it's seemly to remember you.
The first to come with me.

Then, limber slip of arm and leg,
a slick cat's cradle in the bed,
unevened steady breath
and shouldered my straight lie.

That night the candid language of your tongue
spoke in my mouth
and sentenced me.

In murmuring darkness that first time,
I read the act, the play,
in hard orginal,
not in that soft and yielding,
known translation
I was used to.

Your phrasing touch
delivered me;
gave night's affirmations
greater emphasis;
those hollow silences of lick and suck
now had some drama.
Imperatives and pronouns
resonated.
I wasn't mute.

And all the time
the metronome of blood in head and throat
marked time.
A shameful, necessary metre.

And later, house light's up, we dressed
and changed.
Our faces in the mirror showed our make-up.
I cleansed myself
and stepped out of the part.

Just first night nerves
but even so they kept me from that stage
for half my life.

And now he's gone -
and you are.
And year's on
I'm quite the thespian now.
Remembering your masterclass.