WEBVTT

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I'm going to stay in this
cradle for a little while.

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I think it's the surroundings.

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[LAUGHTER]

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[INTERPOSING VOICES]

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The ultimate dance,
is, I think, the Dance

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of the Seven Veils, Salome's
Dance Of the Seven Veils.

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And when I was a kid,
and whenever this came up

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in church, in the
scriptures, I would

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try to imagine exactly
where those seven

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veils were situated,
and how she could-- wow.

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I still don't know.

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But in this poem,
which is called

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the "Seven Veils of Salome,"
what you're going to find is,

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there are several parts,
and each part has--

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I wouldn't really
call it a title.

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I'd call it more
stage directions.

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Because don't forget,
it is the same scene

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seen through the eyes of various
characters who are watching it.

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Now, one of the things
about the story of Salome

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that I didn't realize
when I was a child,

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only realized a
few years ago, was

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that it was not
Salome's decision

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actually to ask the head
of John the Baptist.

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She asked her mother,
Herodias, what

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she should request, when Herod
said I'll give you anything

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in my kingdom-- which is a bad
thing to do before someone does

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a dance like that.

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But when he offered that,
she went to her mother

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and said, what should I ask for?

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Her mother, who
had been rebuffed

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by John the Baptist earlier, a
few days before, had an answer.

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"The Seven Veils of Salome."

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"Salome awaits her entrance.

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I was standing in the doorway
when he reproached her,

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not with words, but a
simple absence of attention.

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She was smiling, holding out a
slip of meat, skewered fruit,

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some delicacy he'd
surely never seen

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in all his dust-blown,
flea-plagued wanderings.

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And he stared at it
for the longest while,

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as if the offer came from it,
and not those tapered fingers,

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my mother's famous smile.

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He said nothing, merely turned
away his large and beautifully

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arrogant head.

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Herodias in the doorway.

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More than anything, I ache
to see her so girlish.

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She steps languidly
into their midst,

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as if onto a pooled
expanse of grass.

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Or as if she were
herself a meadow,

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unruffled green
ringed with lilies,

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instead of these
red-rimmed eyes,

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this wasteland soaked
in smoke and pleasure.

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Ignorant, she moves
as if inventing time.

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And the musicians scurry to
deliver a carpet of flutes

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under her flawless heel.

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Herod watching.

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I should have avoided this,
loving her mother as I do,

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to the length and
breadth of my kingdom,

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even to the chilly depths
of history's wrath.

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But it was my birthday.

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I was bent upon
happiness and love.

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I loved Herodias, my Herodias,
who sends her honey daughter

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into the feast.

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The first veil fell, and
all my celebrated years

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dissolved in bitter rapture.

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Oh, Herodias, you
have undone us all.

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The fool at Herod's feet.

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Just a girl, slim hem,
two knots for breasts.

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Sheathed potential caught
before the inevitable overbloom

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and rot.

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Life's revenge of
death eludes us.

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All any of us men want,
really, just a girl.

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Otherwise, who could fathom it?

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How is it to be fathomed?

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At his behest, her
mother's, it matters little.

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She was dispatched into
the circle of elders,

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and there she rivets
the world's desire.

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Salome dancing.

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I have a head on my
shoulders, but no one sees it.

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No one reckons with a calculated
wrist or pouting under them.

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I've navigated this
court's attentions,

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and I will prove I can be
crueler than government.

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I will delegate
what nature's given

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me, this body, this
anguish, oiled curves

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and perfumed apertures.

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I will dance until they've
all lost their heads.

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The noble slobbering over
their golden goblets,

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the old king sweating
on his throne,

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my mother in the doorway,
rigid with regret.

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The jester, who watches
us all and laughs.

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Oh Mother, what else
is a girl to do?"

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