Edmund White
What’s left of an ex in my memory?
He was kind and courtly (as he should have been
Since he was a Sicilian aristocrat),
When he wasn’t being horrid if I stepped
Out of line, then frozen with fury and
Unforgiving. He taught me one good pasta
Recipe, Pasta alla Norma, with fried eggplant. He
Bought me a CD player when mine broke, several
Cashmere blankets, and he restored a leather
Club chair that was in tatters. He was a doctor, could play
The harpsichord, cook a few dishes, entertain
In his battleship-sized loft, lie and cheat convincingly,
Make the sort of love a heterosexual Mediterranean
Male might make, selfish and athletic—and which I liked
Because it never dwindled away even after we broke up.
We both cried a lot. He had a black ceramic vase with an
African face and a crown, until I explained that
Was unacceptable in politically correct New York.
Then it was banished, as was I when I told his new
Lover that Giovanni and I were still having sex. I saw a good shrink
And got over him. I’ll never have another lover—
Too much of a bother. Once in a while I wish we could
Speak on the phone, to find out whether his father’s
Parkinson’s is progressing, whether his little brother
Got married, and did he ever discover a cure for that
Kind of breast cancer. And does he still hate me?