Gone. Another day gone. Its chest-
shredding tragedies or frivolous whims equally
scavenged by dusk. Soon the wind will rest
in the messy trellis of my tree.
Remember? It was late in the afternoon,
we walked a while along these limestone cliffs,
under the silver ghosts of eucalyptus trees.
So I stop my busy nothingnesses & sit a while
at my good table, by the white bowl
edged golden by the sun.
Verlaine threw pail after pail after
cold water pail on the gravel under Rimbaud’s
windows, to cool the air as he slept.
I’m from the ocean’s melancholy, dragging
its anchors back & forth, never quiet, never
still, waves so restless they can’t mirror the moon.
Then, you stop weeping. Lift your face from your hands.
His cat mourned better than I, lying
on her side for weeks across his room’s threshold
Some evenings, he would hide his face in his hands
for a few seconds —
You are invited to attend a reading by some of the most talented poets in the country. The time is 8pmET Tuesday, March 2.
The glint of those stares —
a flash of mica — offered to me &
just like that, I felt my loneliness shatter
I was free, I was twenty. I fell wholly &
forever in love every week. I was hungry for life
Look at me, writing circles around what I must face:
The man I love is dead.
So, how are you? friends ask, all kindness & concern,
heads cocked, eyes locked in mine.
&, just like that, I’m his again:
his wife, his widow