In a college dorm, in a prison, in a marriage
Subscribe and Save up to 45%
for my mother A line of sparrows rises from the hedge Like a simple declarative sentence. You were alone then, without friends. This morning I woke up in a cold house And remembered. I have a few friends. I have learned to live with one woman, And finally, with your death. As if to make Sense of it, I translate the short paragraphs My breath writes in the cold. I listen All night to the hum of a snowfall. Either I loved you or I didn’t. I say it now, But in a small room you waited for me once And I didn’t come. I wonder what you heard, The few words I hadn’t learned to say, The mice gnawing on your hardwood coffin?
I don’t come in from the rain because It isn’t raining. Still, the dampness Of your voice on the telephone Must have come from a darkened sky, And there wasn’t time to shut the windows. You’re wet, your hair smells of ozone. I imagine you waiting for the clouds To pass, seeing a different man In each nimbus, in the closets, under the bed. I put on my raincoat just in case. You must understand That love suffers this weather too. The street steams like an iron On a moist sheet. Anyway, the rain has started again. This time it will last a month. Can you Hear it lisping against your windows, waiting Just outside like a lover, patiently Cultivating pure white mushrooms?
The crook of my arm Repeats the chevron of geese overhead Heading south. I wonder if winter has come yet To those northern, spiritual lakes. Like them I’m religious by association, and cold. I don’t care if I have no more whiskey. I remember those long afternoons we lay In bed, speechless as fish under the ice. I wanted to take off your clothes, simply. Although the leaves are flying like a migration Of rags, I’ve found a place to sleep. If You’ve gone to bed and it’s late, turn on The light, walk quickly across the floor As if you heard me tap on the window.
Roger Sauls