So here I am, stupid and luminescent under the lights,
a pilgrim to these markers of yours,
rifling the spines, ferreting the backs
that talk as if you were still going places,
ignorant of your future posthumous fame.
I see you own real shelf space now, the rival of
Carruth, Cartland, Catullus, and Cheever
(but never Chekhov). So
who would have thought? Even
the book from the movie. What a hoot.
Bet you'd shake your head, embarrassed; bet you'd
pocket the dough in a slick minute and not look back. Maybe
I linger too long, a junkie for this feeling like I
could call you up and come right over although I
can not imagine what I would say since you
would not fathom why I had come. You
would be generous and inarticulate, too empathetic,
thinking you would still be a merlin to my ingenue. Maybe
we would sit around in your living room again,
drink grapefruit and vodka again and
watch the air get dark. Then
in the kitchen your daughter would make a pie, then
your first wife would come in to complain
and make some other points
about how things are going. Then
you would center your glass close
to your body like a divining rod,
the ice emerging and submerging,
leviathans nosing at clues.
It would get darker.
Your son would leave.
You would hide out.
I would decide to head for the surface,
sure you had forgotten to breathe. Maybe
your sotto voce floats after me,
don't worry kid,
all of me is lifting at once,
as if it were impossible to drown. Maybe
I think
as if it were possible
you would rise in this tongue
to say the last thing
and not look back
as if it were possible
(but you know this)
as if it were possible
to finish anything.
© Nancy Taylor, 1996
Valley of Saying Home Page Poems by Nancy Taylor