If you'll believe me when I tell you I have tried
To understand pleasure, the beginning of pleasure,
You'll know exactly how I watched my mother
That morning lounging in the red plush chair
In the gray, submerging shadows of the parlor
As she talked on the phone:that I stared
With each of my five years at the tender
Curve of her ankle as it moved downt the high instep
Of her dry, clean, pale, and perfect foot and over
The toes, underneath to the arch. Oh, it just leapt!
It was the highest, most splendid arch,
More magnificent than the Arc de Triomphe in the newsreels
As the German soldiers marched beneath,
More delicate than the arches of the bridges
Of Venice, build by those gentlemen the Doges,
Paved by the feet of centuries of lovers
And saved from destruction by the American soldiers
On probably the same morning
I watched my mother's foot tense and relax,
And when she smiled down her long body at me,
And stroked my hair, and offered me the smooth beauty
Of her foot, and asked me, yes, to rub it just a little,
She said, right into the phone to whomever,
"Ahhh," the ah of the beginning of pleasure
That demands, even as it gives itself up,
That leaves you always ready to begin,
Always on the lip of things
Like a young harlot standing on the Bridge of Sighs
Waving goodbye to the soldiers of the losing side,
Waving hello to the soldiers of the winning side.
Ed note: This poem first appeared in the Atlantic Monthly. Donald Hall chose it for The Best American Poetry 1989. Paul Muldoon picked Orlen's poem "Song: I Love You. Who are You?" for the Best American Poetry 2005
Steve Orlen has died. We will post a remembrance of him here later today. Meanwhile, please share in the comment field your thoughts about this wonderful poet.