Antarctica Starts Here
John Cale (performed by Okkervil River)
We never spoke
though I’m sure we met,
late winter light
frosting her strangely
brown hair (wrapped close
in Hermès, the only
concession to disguise).
She held with two fingers
her white Chanel
sunglasses, lifting them
now and then to chew
softly on an arm,
staring hard at
Bathers by a River.
Anyone could see
it was her, though
no one else did.
We loved the same
paintings I like to think,
O’Keefe’s Sky Above Clouds,
Nighthawks, of course,
and we took the same
time in each gallery.
After a few hours she
turned and nodded
thanks, and left—
no entourage or
bodyguard, no one
even to carry the bag
of books she bought
in the gift shop.
Did I volunteer
to help? Did I say,
in passing, as I held
the door open to
Michigan Avenue
with one hand, the bag
of books in the other,
that if I were given just
one meal and one
movie to end
my last day on earth,
I would go hungry and ask
for both Belle du Jour
and Le Dernier Métro?
I watched her
walk away beneath
the “lights that reach
from Barbary to here”
and felt the air return
to normal in my lungs,
though for hours
I smelled her perfume
in my shirt whenever
I lifted a sleeve
to my face, her own
perfume as it turned out:
she was in town
to debut Deneuve,
“a fragrance as chic
as its namesake”
I read in the Tribune
the next day, alongside
a note in the gossip column:
“Two hundred roses
delivered to Catherine
Deneuve’s suite
at the Drake.” But
I knew that.