3.22.2022

everyone I know is drowning trying to escape some island

In a silent room surrounded by sand I sleep. 
Sometimes the phantoms of the dead 
on the far shore wrestle for hours 
with the great questions he and I— 
and everyone we had ever forgotten— 
abandoned when we fell out of love, 
when the long nights appropriated us. 
 
Or maybe they aren’t phantoms. 
It’s winter on that island, the frozen 
snow is bricked high for miles, 
like a seawall to discourage visitors: 
in spring it will thaw, the beach will flood, 
and the actors masquerading as ghosts will drown. 
 
To marry means to halve one’s rights & double one’s duty. 
Or as a friend observed at his ex-wife’s wedding: 
divorces open out, marriages close in. 
Really both are imaginary lines over which 
two briefly parallel lines intersect, 
creating a rectangle—a cell. 
Everyone I know is drowning trying to escape some island. 
 
Other times, the dead on their milky shore 
rock in unison in marble chairs 
and agree that the great questions 
were so many distractions they created 
like a long white wall to keep themselves 
from falling too deeply in love. 
 
Last night in the dry stillness I dreamt 
of that island again: the snow fell fast 
and under the ice the drowned men recited 
their lines, scripted subtly by my former husband. 
It’s true, you see, they aren’t phantoms. 
But who can say how I came to this desert, 
all my lights burning at noon, and the phone— 
off the hook for days—ringing again. 
 

No comments:

Post a Comment