The Fosse Grim Returns to Water
We float, my dear, we float.
And the sleeping caddisfly ventures
Ever nearer to the disturbed water.
On a mountain of misery, we
Built our rooms and empty walls,
filled them, then closed the skies
and all the stars with an emptier roof.
I did not realize how empty I’d become,
by then.
How devoid of that heavy fullness
I want to spy in your eyes. Nor did I realize
how strong your hands have become, dearest.
Such warm coffee you made me,
In our little fortress of solitude.
The bath is warm, dear, and our children cold.
There is no nectar, no liquid honey.
There is no peeping boy in the eaves.
And come April,
There shall be nectar only
In the Flame of the Forest.
There is our Ajay here, defeated,
Floating beside me, and little
Leela’s soft hair, black and suspended.
I can only imagine that this wet wind
That cools my lips shall touch yours too
And bring some empty sounds.
The porch is dark, where we used to sit
growing paler like the yellowing wheat and sun.
There are no oceans of Trojan gore,
No bloody Abel or bleeding Laxman
Who can be revenged or
(if 'tis not too much) saved.
There is only a little stream
From the pinprick in my neck
That I first felt while reading this morning
How Leopold Bloom’s watch stopped ticking;
And you walked in with an apple
You had cut to pieces and the knife
With which you had cut it. And you stood
Behind me as once you had beside me
And fed me red-skinned fruits.
Did you see my closed eyes, my closed heart?
Did you notice the shadows on my face?
You have eaten apples too, haven’t you?
The forbidden variety from the town,
Though I did not forbid it. There is
A car rolling like an ominous wooden horse,
making its way up the hillock.
The doctor did not come in that car,
Did he, when he came to treat your eyes?
Maybe he plans to travel far this night
When the shadows are wailing
Like owls having nightmares.
I fear, my dear, that things don’t rhyme anymore.
I can’t write letters to you like while you were
Away for your health, for your beautiful eyes,
Away with the doctor who saw their miseries.
Do you remember how you used to say
“Ecco homo” every time I opened the bedroom door,
With you within, or came to sleep beside you?
We were young then, fresh from university
And Latin courses. I wondered where all the photographs
Were of our youth? Have you hidden them all away
Or are they lying there somewhere below me now,
Covered in algae blue and green.
Your hands, my dear, are they shaking?
Keep them firm, like you did when you lulled
Ajay to sleep. His pillow, a lullaby was.
Your hands are strong, my dear.
I’d bet my clothes that the doctor knows
But I don’t have them on me.
The fly has made it to the water
And we still float somewhere between here
And God knows where else. But He knows it well.
I feel pale, my dear, you always make my baths so well.
I’m sure I’ll stay in longer, but you know why
We never had lilies- the pond freezes every winter night,
the caddisflies and the crickets are silent.
Have you had your bath yet? Do you feel any cleaner?
I told you that the bath was warm and the children cold
The nighttime scares them so. You’ve left
The bathroom lights on. Who’ll pay the bill
As you run to the gate where he waits?
I’m sorry. I was always the economic one
And I kept denying us things.
Bon voyage, dear, and don’t strain your eyes
Looking at murky ponds past evening.
This is where the uphill stops,
The old road tops
The hill.
This is where the cypress gloats,
The singer floats
Until
The song hath sunk.
