June - James Harms
I think it was that woman's laughter
that reminded me of our need to know,
so clear it is that she doesn't know
what her companion thinks of her, how he leans
into her laugh and touches his wine glass
without lifting it. If I believe in you we may
receive their dinners by mistake, a form
of prayer in some cultures, where the random
arrival of food is as freighted with hope as the Tarot.
Or is it the small sprig of something she wears pinned
to her pocket that makes me think of Blake,
his habit of covering lunch stains with funny buttons?
He died in 1982, though for years I pretended differently,
scratching my cheek as he did when considering
the angle in billiards. His mother named him for
the mystic, not the poet, as if we all have two
closets to consult each morning. But today
is my birthday, May 20th, a Saturday,
and you are treating me to dinner at dusk and alfresco,
our favorite restaurant, our favorite spot at the edge
of the patio. The bees are wrestling above the garden tables,
bouncing and dodging, thumping each other like drunk lovers,
buzzing the bright blouse of that lovely little girl
who seems ready to scream, her mother waving
a white napkin. These evenings are fragrant
with summer, you can taste it at the edge of each breath.
Like fog lifting from a freshly planted field, how it arrives
at your window redolent of loam, it seems we are
in the doorway waiting for the sounds of lawnmowers
and window fans, for the air to thicken with heat.
But then time really is a distance as they say,
and if we hurry we'll get somewhere by morning,
perhaps June. Let me help you with your salad.
I'd wear a suit out of season (the sandy linen one
with the backward pleats) if I thought it would
carry us through "the charity of the hard moments."
But it seems at any second the rain will be
loosening our buttons, and it is not
so much a sinecure that I propose but a little
laughter in the face of it. I forget it isn't you
grown quiet in the green light spilling through
strange trees, but my memory of you.
We were talking about Blake. Loss is the province
next door to presence, you say. Well, yes, I suppose.
But what about who I was before, the strange shoes
I wore? And that vague beauty hidden in the folds
of a silk shirt packed away, the arms trapped behind,
the fumes of camphor--I could call it hope,
it was that sweet--do I leave it behind as well?
Oh but it's learning to live with loss, they say,
that will burnish the slim remains, though with what
it isn't written. As if we had so much more.
As if we hadn't given most of it away.
I had meant to tell you about Blake
the first time we made love (forgive me
for forgetting), but I was listening to what
you were saying. And suddenly I thought of
the wine in the refrigerator, the strawberries:
how easily summer heals, whether bought
in small baskets or simply remembered.
So why won't you let him go, you say.
Let him go, yes. It's funny but I once imagined you
in feather boas, nothing else. And though often termed
a struck reverie, I find wonder an uncoiling,
how they slipped from your shoulders,
snaked around your hips. But I have nothing
to fear for this never happened; I can let it go.
As the heavy mist this morning left its fingerprints
on the porch swing, the past is a rash
that now and then recurs; and I don't want
to cure it. But could we have that wine now?
I know Blake would approve of this armistice,
this supposition of love, and Blake was my first friend
to leave early, I listen to him.
---
I know someone who thinks this is truly the most beautiful thing he's ever read. I don't blame him.
that reminded me of our need to know,
so clear it is that she doesn't know
what her companion thinks of her, how he leans
into her laugh and touches his wine glass
without lifting it. If I believe in you we may
receive their dinners by mistake, a form
of prayer in some cultures, where the random
arrival of food is as freighted with hope as the Tarot.
Or is it the small sprig of something she wears pinned
to her pocket that makes me think of Blake,
his habit of covering lunch stains with funny buttons?
He died in 1982, though for years I pretended differently,
scratching my cheek as he did when considering
the angle in billiards. His mother named him for
the mystic, not the poet, as if we all have two
closets to consult each morning. But today
is my birthday, May 20th, a Saturday,
and you are treating me to dinner at dusk and alfresco,
our favorite restaurant, our favorite spot at the edge
of the patio. The bees are wrestling above the garden tables,
bouncing and dodging, thumping each other like drunk lovers,
buzzing the bright blouse of that lovely little girl
who seems ready to scream, her mother waving
a white napkin. These evenings are fragrant
with summer, you can taste it at the edge of each breath.
Like fog lifting from a freshly planted field, how it arrives
at your window redolent of loam, it seems we are
in the doorway waiting for the sounds of lawnmowers
and window fans, for the air to thicken with heat.
But then time really is a distance as they say,
and if we hurry we'll get somewhere by morning,
perhaps June. Let me help you with your salad.
I'd wear a suit out of season (the sandy linen one
with the backward pleats) if I thought it would
carry us through "the charity of the hard moments."
But it seems at any second the rain will be
loosening our buttons, and it is not
so much a sinecure that I propose but a little
laughter in the face of it. I forget it isn't you
grown quiet in the green light spilling through
strange trees, but my memory of you.
We were talking about Blake. Loss is the province
next door to presence, you say. Well, yes, I suppose.
But what about who I was before, the strange shoes
I wore? And that vague beauty hidden in the folds
of a silk shirt packed away, the arms trapped behind,
the fumes of camphor--I could call it hope,
it was that sweet--do I leave it behind as well?
Oh but it's learning to live with loss, they say,
that will burnish the slim remains, though with what
it isn't written. As if we had so much more.
As if we hadn't given most of it away.
I had meant to tell you about Blake
the first time we made love (forgive me
for forgetting), but I was listening to what
you were saying. And suddenly I thought of
the wine in the refrigerator, the strawberries:
how easily summer heals, whether bought
in small baskets or simply remembered.
So why won't you let him go, you say.
Let him go, yes. It's funny but I once imagined you
in feather boas, nothing else. And though often termed
a struck reverie, I find wonder an uncoiling,
how they slipped from your shoulders,
snaked around your hips. But I have nothing
to fear for this never happened; I can let it go.
As the heavy mist this morning left its fingerprints
on the porch swing, the past is a rash
that now and then recurs; and I don't want
to cure it. But could we have that wine now?
I know Blake would approve of this armistice,
this supposition of love, and Blake was my first friend
to leave early, I listen to him.
---
I know someone who thinks this is truly the most beautiful thing he's ever read. I don't blame him.