How boring it must’ve been
for Brigitte Bardot’s stand-in,
lying nude on her stomach,
hour after hour, as Godard
called for yet another close-up,
tilting the camera like a telescope
aimed at the heresy of two moons.
Perhaps she yawned, watching
gaffers move light around
a soundstage, arranging
the solar system that would
best illuminate Brigitte’s bottom—
or perhaps leafed through Life,
smoking cigarettes.
It would’ve been cold,
her nipples stiff and irrefutable
as she lay waiting for the director’s O.K.,
his ultimate approval of light.
Only then would the real Brigitte
finally appear on-set, stripping
even as she sauntered into the scene,
her clothes collecting lazily behind
like the trail of a sluggish comet—and
only then would our stand-in
(now lingering just off-screen,
robe cinched) feel that sadness
particular to heavenly bodies
that have abandoned their orbits.
Sometimes the universe must adjust
itself to the arrival of stars.