"souffle"

he positioned me across two chairs
as if my body was a bridge:
one end the hips and up
one end the feet with their painted toes.
he left me there to stare
at the poster of A bout de souffle
in yellow, black and white:
her hands playing a game of sorts
that female smile spanning her face
pushing her cheeks in
apples of unseen blush;
and he, silent, smoking, small,
looking at her and her fingers
and face
as if that was all there was
in the world--
a bed with sheets
fateful femme of his past, present, and future
his hands clutching his stomach
as he lay flat
on the bed that contained,
for now,
the two of them.
a look of unsettling clues
to what will happen:
that her smile is too set,
that he is under
her mysterious play,
that his eyes are troubled with deciphering her face
and failing,
sucking on the cigarette whose smoke rises out of his sight
and grasping
he no longer can retain any of this:
upset me
as i lie here,
my hips-toe bridged on two chairs,
while the people outside the room looking through the glass pane
in the door
assume
that i just want to sleep.