Confession
Once, and only once, Sweet Girl,
my hand on your ass, I felt my spirit.
It was late and snow fell against the moon,
while all of Paris slept, and the cats passed
before the houses, gliding like ghosts.
Suddenly, in the middle of our intimacy,
I heard a rich instrument vibrating,
radiating, from you and there was so
much joy all night until the morning
encircled us. One note escaped from you
like a baby, horrible, sad, something
so small and dead. Poor angel, you
sang this song from your secret cave:
Nothing on earth is certain, people
betray each other, and everything
ends in man’s egotism.
These were hard words from a good
woman. You said that work means
nothing with your closed, cold
hand around my dick.
It’s all mechanical, you said.
Well that really shook me up.
You said love, beauty, all of it’s a lie
and yet I took so much from our
night together and remember it every day
that I walk these streets. I remember
your silence too. And your clear
confidence when you said
Felix, take this confession
and call it my heart.
Sandra Simonds is the author of eight books books of poetry, most recently: Triptychs (forthcoming Wave Books, November 2022), Atopia (Wesleyan University Press, 2019), Orlando, (Wave Books, 2018), and Further Problems with Pleasure, winner of the 2015 Akron Poetry Prize, 2009). Her poems and criticism have appeared in the New Yorker, the New York Times, the Best American Poetry, Poetry, and elsewhere. She is an Associate professor of English and Humanities at Thomas University in Thomasville, Georgia. Find out more about Sandra here.
Charles Baudelaire (1821–1867) was a French poet, essayist, art critic, and translator of Edgar Allan Poe.
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Author: The Best American Poetry
