Would you love me more, if, let’s say, my eyes
were chestnut? If I could whistle like a boy—
the neighbor boy, calling his dog, his mother’s
bell clanging at dusk to summon him to supper?
What if I spoke with an accent, a grinding of
pepper? If I told lies, would you prosecute?
If I stole one scent every day from the banks
of the Seine? What if I ran out of emotion and
stood still? If my inertia overtook my gravity?
If we woke up together and no longer knew each
other, and I introduced myself as the vaudeville
villain with a moustache demanding the rent the rent
from a girl with hair like a whitewater river?