Next to my own skin, her pearls. My mistressbids me wear them, warm them, until eveningwhen I'll brush her hair. At six, I place themround her cool, white throat. All day I think of her,resting in the Yellow Room, contemplating silkor taffeta, which gown tonight? She fans herselfwhilst I work willingly, my slow heat enteringeach pearl. Slack on my neck, her rope.She's beautiful. I dream about herin my attic bed; picture her dancingwith tall men, puzzled by my faint, persistent scentbeneath her French perfume, her milky stones.I dust her shoulders with a rabbit's foot,watch the soft blush seep through her skinlike an indolent sigh. In her looking-glassmy red lips part as though I want to speak.Full moon. Her carriage brings her home. I seeher every movement in my head.... Undressing,taking off her jewels, her slim hand reachingfor the case, slipping naked into bed, the wayshe always does.... And I lie here awake,knowing the pearls are cooling even nowin the room where my mistress sleeps. All nightI feel their absence and I burn.