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Elegy for One Who’ll Never Die
We feel he
dwells somewhere beyond our lives.
Bracing
himself on banisters of gold, Elvis
rubs his
eyes, descends as if the veils
are
lifting, along with all the age’s evils.
But
listen: even in Graceland’s basement, rats
scatter
into a deeper night that tars
their fur
with the oil of empty rooms. No star
splits
that blackness, and he, for all his arts,
steps
carefully, still drugged. With eyes of stone,
he sees
what we do not, he hums the notes
of hymns
with hidden meanings, drowns the tones
of
flunkies who lament, “His clothes are stained…”
Outside,
the sentry at the booth detains
a guest;
he waves his shield, shifts from Reverse
to Park,
then looks up—suddenly, mere words
are
useless before the gates he, too, reveres,
and more:
that light—it’s as if a sword
cut
through the drapes that held it in reserve—
passing
within those windows. Though I saw nothing
is what
he’ll tell friends back in Washington.
Pianoforte
Colonel
Brandon (Alan Rickman) sees Marianne Dashwood (Kate Winslett)
for the
first time in Ang Lee’s
Sense
and Sensibility (1995)
—And in
the moment that your fingers pressed
the
pianoforte’s keys, relaxed, then tensed,
about to
strike (the interval sustained
beneath
your right hand, silence between chords
struck
with your left), you smiled, broke into song,
and
everything was harmony: your voice
rising to
melody, triads of taut strings
hammered
or nudged, touched once, brushed aside
before
your audience, a scale descending
till it
broke away, transformed itself
while you
kept singing, sun against gold hair
shaken
just slightly, bright keys, polished wood
that
flared with light.
I stood at the back,
unseen,
but knew
already all I had was yours.
Epiphany
What
moment was it when I understood?
—Checking
your watch once more, your satchel strapped
across a
shoulder, hair caught, voice gone cool
as in all
your departures, you remarked,
unasked,
that you’d be back again. I heard
the
pulleys of the elevator drumming
somewhere
in the dark behind closed doors,
and as the
rumbling slowed and we stood waiting
awkwardly,
some unseen wheel grinding,
threatening to fail, cables drawn taut
in this
long-faded building, we both knew
exactly
what it meant: that this was what
you’d
planned to say, to feel….The doors snapped back,
and
crashed, at last. And we stepped in again.
Reunion
You
answered first, “Things turned out for the best,
for
both of us.” What had I hoped to hear?
Traffic, and far-off thunder: soon, the rain,
huge
drops, would strike the canopy. I’d missed
your
laughter, steady gaze, musician’s ear,
a
scientist’s cool reason, all the best
of what
we’d almost salvaged, though the wine,
the
afternoon, we’d used up.... Did I care
just
what was best, or not, how fast the rain
would
drench this small cafe, future and past
the
same, too dark too see? Or else too clear....
Time,
now, to drain your glass. Yes, it was best,
or
else, best we could hope for, now that, soon,
we’d
part ways once again, and nothing more
I’d
force from you would help. When would the rain
flood
down and drum the canvas, clear the air,
leave
all the world a blank slate?...
As before
we’d
ever questioned what would turn out best,
you
listened, kindly, waiting for the rain.
In Sympathy with Saint Therese
Except ye be converted, and
become as
little children, ye shall not
enter into
the kingdom of heaven…
So
long secluded, crouched on the convent floor,
stones worn smooth where you scrubbed, then scrubbed again,
you’d pause and gaze up—child-like, vacant-eyed—
All these hard things I’ll do—just let me burn,
a candle on Your altar—as
you’d done
long years till now, hair cropped, mantle and robe
concealing what had changed: so much, within,
that burned in some new way, burned till you cried
out loud, “Have I refused You anything?”—
wanting so much to touch, or to be touched,
and so, freed from a body which betrayed you
with its fire, its blood….
So much the
better
never to have recovered, one less daughter
cured by a marble Virgin’s fleeting smile….
Lidless Eyes
As if
to search this wet earth, all you need
to see
still near, or near enough, the bullfrog’s
steady
croaking stopped, flicking your tongue,
you
slip through moss, dead leaves....When did you fall
from
all your light, reduced to this, skin trembling
with
each sound and alligator-quake?
And
though some claim you‘re poisonous—they’re wrong—
others,
they‘ve seen you roll, a black wheel tumbling,
tail-arch clasped in jaws, only to break,
all
tail, and slide away, or that you bleed
yet
leave no trail—all lies—I know the dogs
that
crash through weeds have failed, nothing to kill
for all
their work. You’re gone, later to rise
from
burrows deep in mud, with lidless eyes.
Copyright
© 2011 Ned Balbo
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