Reflection while photographing your legs
after Le gambe di Martine, by Henri Cartier-Bresson (France), 1967
May I imagine
what happened
between the moment
some small time ago
when you lowered your lovely frame
to the divan
and this moment
that I find you in now?
May I attempt
to sequence the increments correctly—
how you had to have first
lowered yourself
slide neatly against the backrest
to and recline in comfort
your legs stretched out?
How you must have
done a little shimmy
to adjust your dress
so as not to reveal
too much thigh
on which you would soon place
the novel you are now reading
how you would have leaned
toward the low table
to reach that novel
your latest romance
(or is it your Proust?)
to draw it into the range of your vision
open it to the approximate page
and attend fully to the words
how as you became absorbed
in the flow of the story
the meander of sentences
your heart would have started
to beat just a little faster
your breathing to come
just a little more erratically
and how tiny pulses of electricity
surely ran through your body
the slightest tingle
causing your hip to shift then jut
your legs so smooth and slender
to cross then intertwine
in a close tight braid?
And may I anticipate now
the look on your face
when finally you lift your eyes
and see me before you
how you will seem
not annoyed but pleased
and perhaps request
that I lay my camera down
and join you on the divan
where I too will recline
legs stretched out
and you will allow me
as you read
to adjust your dress
to lightly caress your thigh
but not to disturb too much
until eventually the braid is loosened
words abandoned
and you are ready
to flow toward
the love you are
at this moment
remembering?