Dark still. Twelve degrees below freezing. Tremor along the elegant, injured right front leg of the gelding on the cross-ties. Kneeling girl. The undersong of waters as she bathes the leg in yet more cold. [tongue is broken] [god to me] Her hair the color of winter wheat.
(Olivier Theatre, South Bank)
I was his favorite, simply that.
And you can see
for yourself why it might have been so:
the lushest, least
likely to weary the eyes of all
the serried wavelengths.
of the spectrum unstable somehow,
in a way that kept
bringing him back. Search
on your browser and you’ll see
what I mean.
I’ve never had the advantage of
beauty, as the lily has, I haven’t
been able to boast
that stricture of line. That making-
knows I’ve wished for it, beggars
But no. Some neither-this-nor
that turns out to be
my sphere. Some manyness rather
perfection. Which I like to think
he thought about.
He made this place.
They named it
for him. And upholstered the seats
whose cluster of vowels and con-
he loved like my blue-going-violet-
gray. The vocal colors. Warm-up,
the play. So you see, they were
wrong, the ones
who called me unrequited. I
was in his throat,
among the folds and ridges and
beyond them to
the very dome upon whose curve
the heart resides.
Just think what it used to be then,
in the hour before
they’d let the rest of you in:
my many faces toward
the sun who spoke—no, sang—