From the Fishouse

When she tells me her name I’m thinking
of Napoleon’s exile there. Of his hand
in paintings, oddly tucked away,
and the vague memory that it meant
something, once. I’m thinking
then of Bugs Bunny aping Bonaparte
and how as a child I laughed
but did not know the thousands dead
in his name. I’m thinking
not at all what she would like
kneeling there in the aisle of this plane
when she asks if I was born
this way, and who in Chicago takes care
of me, a wife, a girlfriend—
she knows one or the other is in my life.
When I tell her which two
white rings of bone in my neck
are fused, wired, made one,
I can see her ardor marry grief
and I want to save her
from my life. I tell her
that some now think Napoleon died
of a hormonal disease
slowly making of him a woman,
his body white, smooth, hairless,
with breasts a physician thought beautiful,
and though she smiles
I cannot tell which story she no longer
wants to know.