Bette Midler (©Peter Kramer, Getty Images,January 9, 2007)

Stay with Me, Baby

At the Bette Midler concert,
that dazzling woman clawed my composure,
wrenched my careful memories askew
as she burnt her way through the song
Stay With Me, Baby.
Not that I could acknowledge the pain
right there – nope, had to stand still,
silent, next to my date of the moment
rather than next to the man her song invoked,
unexpectedly caught in the wrong place.
I thought enough time had passed.
I always think enough time has passed,
that I won't cry anymore
when surprised by a particular sequence
of notes, chords, words.

All night, I kept waking, dizzied by that refrain,
howling those words in the frenzied dreams
of my present cozy bedroom.
Stay with me, baby,
remembering Bette, Grief defiant,
glamorous in a silver gown,
red hair swept high into elegance,
diamonds spotlighted to the balcony,
and my sudden rememberings camouflaged
by their bright reflections.

Where had I been
when I sang stay with me, baby,
for my audience?
Running down the driveway?
Screaming from the doorway?
Kneeling on the living room carpet?
Lying on the bed?
Curled into the telephone?
What's the best position
for begging and demanding
at the same time?

What are the magic words
—are there any words so potent
that, when heard, could compel him to stay?
Please, please, stay with me, baby,
just for a little while,
oh, just for a little longer.
Stay until the scene is over,
the fear abated for the moment,
the quickened grief and terror eased,
the wreckage of my eyes drowsing....
Stay until you think that maybe this time
you can run fast enough.

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