SUZANNE

You make us want to stay alive, Suzanne,
the way you turn



your blonde head.
The way you curve your slim hand


toward your breast.
When you drew your legs



up, sitting by the fire,
and let your bronze hair



stream about your knees
I could see all the grief



of the girl in your eyes.
It touched the high,



formal bones of your face.
Once I heard it in your lovely voice



when you sang--
the terrible time of being young.



Yet you bring us joy with your
self, Suzanne, wherever you are.



And once, although I wasn't there,
you left three roses on my stair.



One party night when you were high
you fled barefoot down the hall.



the fountain of your laughter
showering through the air.



"Chartreuse," you chanted
(the liqueur you always wanted),



"I have yellow chartreuse hair!"
Oh it was a great affair.



You were the most exciting person there.
Yesterday, when I wasn't here



again,
you brought a blue, porcelain



egg to me--
colored beautifully



for the Russian Easter.
Since then, I have wanted to be your lover,



but I have only touched your shoulder
and let my fingers brush your hair,



because you left three roses on my stair.


JOHN LOGAN