Photograph of People Dancing in France

　　by Leslie Adrienne Miller

　　 It's true that you don't know them--nor do I

　　 know what I wanted their movement to say

　　 when I tucked them in an envelope with words

　　 for you. I thought it was my life caught

　　 in a warm night. I believed myself loved

　　 by the wan and delicate man you see dancing

　　 against the drop-off behind them all. But you

　　 can't see that they are on a mountain， that

　　 just beyond the railings is a ravine， abrupt

　　 and studded with thorn， beyond it， a river，

　　 dry bed of stone that， by the time you take

　　 the photo from the envelope， will have filled

　　 with green foam of cold torrents from high

　　 in the Alps. This is France， you think， as you look

　　 at the people dancing， but there is nothing of France

　　 visible save one branch of a tree close enough

　　 to catch in their hair. I could tell you that by the time

　　 you see this picture， the young girl with the long jaw

　　 launching her bared navel at the lens will have bedded

　　 the man you're afraid of losing me to. There is food

　　 on the table， French food， and so more beautiful for that，

　　 green olives in brine， a local cake in paper lace，

　　 sliced tomatoes that look in the flash like flesh

　　 with their red spill of curve and seed. I could tell you

　　 they grew not twenty meters from the table

　　 where you see them， that I picked them one day

　　 with the small woman who bares her breasts

　　 in this photo because she is about to leave us

　　 and doesn't know any other way to say she is sad.

　　 They're alive is all you'll say of the scene， which

　　 is to say you feel you're not. It is November

　　 by the time I've thought to send you the photo，

　　 by the time I feel myself ready to part with the image.

　　 By then， the woman of the manifest breasts has left us，

　　 and the one with the dark eyes who loved her

　　 has darker eyes. Very soon after this dancing stopped，

　　 the man with the hollow cheeks took the girl

　　 of the ripe navel to his bed because he， like you，

　　 is so afraid of dying， he invites it daily， to try him.

　　 The girl's last lover was a boy on heroin in Cairo

　　 with the possible end of them both asleep in his blood，

　　 and now too in the blood of the lover I wanted

　　 to save. Because you are married to a woman

　　 who insists on wearing her dead sister's clothes，

　　 you understand that while I am not in this picture，

　　 I am in this picture. Know that I need never see it again

　　 to see： the incessant knot of the girl's navel is a fist，

　　 an oily wad of sweet-sour girl flesh， a ball of tissue

　　 I twisted and crushed all of that evening， and since.

　　 You refuse to remember her name， or his， because you want

　　 to be my lover again， and the others must be kept

　　 abstract. They were alive you say again， not more，

　　 because the heart is nothing if not a grave. You want me

　　 because your wife holds out her familiar wrist to you

　　 in the terrible sleeve of her dead sister's dress，

　　 because I reach for the gaunt cheek of the man

　　 who worships at the luminous inch of belly on the girl

　　 who lifts her arms from the body of a boy none of us

　　 will ever know in Cairo， the girl， who dead center

　　 in the photo， lifts the potent， mocking extravagance

　　 of her flash-drenched arms， and dances for us all

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