About Eva
OVER WINE by Wisława Szymborska
He glanced, gave me extra charm
and I took it as my own.
Happily I gulped a star.
I let myself be invented,
modeled on my own reflection
in his eyes. I dance, dance, dance
in the stir of sudden wings.
The chair's a chair, the wine is wine,
in a wineglass that's the wineglass
standing there by standing there.
Only I'm imaginary,
make-believe beyond belief;
so fictitious that it hurts.
And I tell him tales about
ants that die of love beneath
a dandelion's constellation.
I swear a white rose will sing
if you sprinkle it with wine.
I laugh and I tilt my head
cautiously, as if to check
whether the invention works.
I dance, dance inside my stunned
skin, in his arms that create me.
Eve from the rib, Venus from foam,
Minerva from Jupiter's head-
all three were more real than me.
When he isn't looking at me,
I try to catch my reflection
on the wall. And see the nail
where a picture used to be.
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