Collected Poems by Jack Gilbert

taste when he got them home, and that
    little not much good. But there had to be a reason
    why people bought them. So he decided to make jam.
    When he smelled the scorching, they were already tar.
    Scraped out the mess and was glad to have it over.
    Found himself licking the crust on the spoon. Next day
    he had eaten the rest, still not sure whether he liked
    it or not. And never able to find any of them since.
MUSIC IS THE MEMORY OF WHAT NEVER HAPPENED
    We stopped to eat cheese and tomatoes and bread
    so good it made me foolish. The woman with me
    wanted to go through the palace of the papal
    captivity. Hazley and Stern said they were going
    to the whorehouse. That surprised me twice
    because it was only two in the afternoon.
    The woman and I went to the empty palace
    and met them later to drive on. They said
    how neat and clean it was in the whorehouse,
    and how all the men and most of the women had
    been in the fourth grade together. I remember
    the soft way they said it but not what they told
    about going upstairs. It is not the going instead
    to a blank palace where history had left no smell
    that I regret. It is not even the dream
    of a Mediterranean woman pulling off her dress,
    the long tousled dark hair, or even the white
    teeth in the shuttered room as she smiled
    mischievously at the young American. I regret
    the fresh coolness when they went inside from
    the July heat and everybody talking quietly
    as they drank ordinary wine in that promised land.
ALTERNATIVES
    It was half a palace, half an ancient fort,
    and built of mud. The home of a fierce baroness.
    The rest were men, mostly elderly, and all German.
    When Denise arrived, it woke them from their habits.
    Not because she was exciting, since the men were
    only interested in boys. But soon they were taking
    turns choosing her costumes and displaying her
    on low couches, or half asleep in nests of cushions
    on the wonderful rugs. They did not want her naked
    unless covered with jewelry. Always coaxed
    her to sing, to have the awkwardness and the way
    she sang off-key mix with the nipples so evident,
    the heavy skirts rucked up. It dominated
    the evenings. They insisted she tell stories
    but did not listen to the rambling accounts
    of growing up in Zurich. Two were interested
    in the year she modeled for
Vogue.
More responded
    to the life in Paris: fancy dinners where
    perfectly dressed men and women made love to her
    with hands and mouths and delicate silver instruments.
    For the Germans, decadence was undistinguished,
    but it mattered when they recognized the names
    of nobles, the painters, and the young
couturière
    who was the sensation of that season.
    What Denise remembers most from the nights
    is how they ended. She and the man with her
    would each choose a lad and go up to the bedroom
    with the wild lamentation of the unchosen following
    behind them. Most had never seen a beautiful woman.
    None had seen a white one. They were desperate
    in their loss. When the boys were forced out,
    they pounded on the great door, a thunder searching
    through the empty corridors. Some went around
    to the side where her window was. Swarmed up
    each other’s back until there were lines up the wall
    six and seven bodies high. When one reached the sill
    he fell immediately, because the seeing was so intense.
    A long wail and a thud, and then the whimpering
    and barking began again. But what she dreams of
    is the first time the Germans took her to the river.
    Small figures appeared in the distance. Drifted
    silently across the desert, slowly through the blur
    of the heat. Soon she could see how young they were.
    A few riding on horses. All discarding their clothes
    as they got closer to the water. Wading, swimming
    across. The black horses splashing. Stopping
    in a ragged line, waiting to be chosen
    for the later choosing. Mostly now she dreams
    of those motionless figures in the powerful emptiness.
    Wordless, shining, staring at her out of their blank faces.
MICHIKO DEAD
    He