Somehow Predicted, Somehow False
The man’s eyes slide open. The moon Has come to the window and placed its Weight on his chest. Beside him, her Breasts tilted by her subtle breaths, Is his cousin’s wife. He walks the hall Striped with moonlight past the room where His cousin’s children snore gently and Into his own room. Outside, morning Slowly arrives, two oaks in the front yard Hissing at the wind while a spruce stands Silent. The dog lifts its head from the Mat on the porch, sniffs and whines softly, Then realizes it is not his master, who Will not be back till Sunday from his Second business trip this week. The man Has come to visit for the summer, to Escape boredom in the country. He is Eighteen, lean and muscular. This is his First taste of love; how can he feel guilt? For his cousin’s wife it is a familiar Story: watching her husband’s self-less Industry divide him from the family, like A man smiling as he bricks and mortars Himself into a windowless room, saying How it will all be for the best, his face All that’s left. How easy the metamorphosis: First love turns into anger, which becomes Indifference, and finally, fecklessly, Desire. They share such wild fantasies That the man feels the knife of jealousy When his cousin sleeps with his own wife, Is sure torment echoes in his throat, stiffens Every gesture. But the children do not Suspect. They idolize their cousin, his Knowledge of music, how he lifts them up And swivels their pliable bodies like Propellers or ceiling fans. With each day The man and woman become more addicted to The thrill of testing their luck, like someone At a casino who keeps staking his winning bets, Fascinated as the pile grows larger, that his Whole life pivots on the clicking wheel worth More than what he might win, which after all Is just more plastic chips. One day they dare Themselves too far, the man’s cousin next door, The children’s voices and a one-minded breeze Jet-streaming up the stairs into the bedroom. Their clothes are on but even at eight, the Daughter knows from how her mother’s hips Have joined his that she has lost a father. At Her shriek the man and woman look up and see Just how their happiness has betrayed them, how Like travellers in another land they have been Misled, and coming over the crest of the hillock They see their future revealed: not what was Promised or hoped, but a river of stones and Beyond it plains with few birds or trees.
Homecoming Without You, Lauren
This weekend last October We stood for snapshots by These black gates, leaves Cartwheeling across the Yard, A vague sense of yellow and Crimson that seemed to brush over The tedious details. What I remember are clouds like terry Cloth, these plain buildings Disfigured by ivy, tremendous Oaks and maples unimpressed By wind, and your fingers Long and delicate like the clasp On a brooch, how they abandoned Holding back your fluttering Hair for my waist. I concentrate On that moment until I no longer Hear the Square’s traffic Grumble, and people bumping Past are like turns in my sleep. I breathe in deeply again And again, air filled with lies About your presence, that same Scent of wet leaves, my shoulders Expecting your hands. For a moment I can believe what the woodcock Believes as he reiterates His speech, his startled glide From grass to nest: There are no years. Only seasons.
