For two hours, I am the woman
who works at the orphanage, the woman
who falls in love with a man from India
who is not who he says he is.
He and I make love for hours beneath a mirror,
twining our limbs in a sea of silk,
and he shows me the pleasure
of losing the stories I’ve told myself
about what is possible with love.
When, after many pages,
we arrive at happily ever after,
I find myself on the couch in my kitchen,
notice my own thick legs curled beneath me,
my own raw heart in my tired chest
doing its faithful work. I’m surprised
to return to my own story:
the woman who is grieving—
the woman alone
in the empty room who listens
for the voice that isn’t there,
who listens for footsteps that do not come.
For the last two hours, I had forgotten her,
had forgotten this woman
whose story I know as my own,
this woman who lost her son.
I had forgotten the ache she carries,
the constant throb. And though it cuts,
though it wounds,
I am so grateful to return to her life,
to her story—the story
of how she gave her everything
to someone she loved,
how she knows he loved her, too.
It’s not a story she had wanted to live,
but now that it’s hers
she would never give up a page
of their story. Not a single word.
*
this poem has been published in ONE ART
As I read today’s Falling Veil, this image: Six months ago, you and I stopping for a moment to look into a backyard, where a beamish boy bounced on a trampoline.
I’ve no words. No matter—you continue discovering/uncovering them.
Thank you, for there is a woman I love who needs your words. Ergo, I give you the words Susan Tweit gave me, years ago: Write. More. Now.
Once more, onward through the dark.
oh dear man, I remember it well. And so we write, we write …
You’re doing it. You are writing a poem a day. What a gift to those of us who love you and to yourself
thank you dear Jan–for now it feels right. I am grateful for this practice and for all–thank you, Jan–who join me in it. love to you
Again, you express so well what I’ve felt since losing my son – now 14 months ago, but the grief surges keep putting me back at “then” – the love keeps growing stronger. Thank you.
Oh dear Jazz, thank you for this. My heart leans toward yours as you grieve as well–oh the love, may it always grow stronger. Love to you, r
Thank you again and again, Rosemerry. I am moved to the core, and feel I am right there with you, filled with love.