I am ashamed of these riches,
this shame is what has helped me hide;
there is an embarrassment
of plenitude,
this rich unfurling passion
that is not lust
but its opposite,
a honey flowering of generosity,
a lush spilling of diamonds.
It is the shame of the woman at the feast,
consuming delicacies
while the urchins crowd near
but out of reach;
not gluttony,
but a fearfulness of stretching,
and maybe too
that caviar will be received badly,
too salty or fishy.
I am embarrassed by the strength
of my own need,
the power of my own undone contractions,
the deep effervescence
of this bright champagne
uncorked.