I was thin and pale and wasted and young
and I entered the kitchen — they were there,
she and he, and they had both injected
and her eyes were far gone — a journeying — 
and I knew she had OD'd, she was dead,
and I asked him if she had uttered
that final famous phrase of hers: "For me,
poetry, it isn't the stars, it is
knowing that life is not about endings
or beginnings — life is about swimming. . . 
we either live or drown, and drowning is
what all lovers, poets, and madmen do."
He told me to fuck off, that she hadnšt
said a word. Besides, she was a hedgehog
now — maybe later she would utter her
famous phrases — now she had other things
she had other things, fuck off, he said, do.

Many years later, I was asked
by the Contessa to recount
the story.
I visited her at her villa,
and she asked her young son, Pablo,
an inquisitive child
who reminded me of me,
to wait for her in the garden.

I enjoyed talking to her,
but I remember her telling me,
"I see you are one of those who believe
that your body is like a house — 
that if you occupy it,
you can do with it as you please —"
as if
        no one
could claim true ownership
                over anything.
She smiled.