Nabokov's Lap
A nondescript dog trots up the hill past the dump,
past a clump of ravens curious
about the tongue that dangles from his mouth
but the dog demurs, veers down a long driveway, the author's car
purring at his side.A narrative, the author thinks, setting the brake
and reaching for his samples. His favorite
slips between the seats
and he pries it out,
dusting his fingerprints from her skin -the girl rocking naked in her special chair
carved to the shape of Nabokov's lap. She squeezes its
muscled walnut arms - 'Tell me a story!' -
but helpless with love the chair can do nothing more
than stare at the nape of her neckand the author appears, dazed,
the dog like a briefcase at the end of his arm
- Should he have come?
'One little two little three little Indians' - kneeling
he nibbles her toes.'That tickles!' The girl squirms in the hapless chair
and small cries are heard
as of a bird caught under a tea-cozy
- the dog leaping to the window,
his pale blue eyes still pitted with ravens -'... ten little Indian boys!' The author
swallows bits of lint.
'Now dry them,' she demands, wiggling her toes
and the author blows his gentle breath back and forth,
each small nail a fresh photograph.