A Sphinx in the museum
wears the face of a woman
and the body of a marble lion—
You used to call me “Sphinxie”
when you asked me a question,
claiming I “knew everything”
though I tried to tell you
the ancient Sphinx
only asked questions,
never answered them.
She could have asked me
whether, on the sinking Titanic,
the ship’s orchestra kept playing:
“Nearer, My God, to Thee”
and, if so, which passenger
came closer to heaven:
Was it the girl who, in a fragile
boat, shivered at the last
sight of the sinking hull,
surviving alone,
as I myself have often done.
Or was it loyal Mrs. Ida Straus,
on the main deck with her man
sliding into airless cold below
knowing beloved arms
had let her go?
