There is a Woman Standing on a Terrace
There is a woman standing on a terrace. She is
wearing a silk sheath--green I think; as pale as
tea. She is holding a drink so icy that it tastes
like mercury. The Pleiades are overhead and she
is gazing eastward, toward the South China Sea.
How do you know? Because this is after
After all your work is done, after the passing of
so many, the travel that took you nowhere.
After you married and divorced, after your children
defied you, which meant that you had done your job.
Now you are so old that you are free to hope.
Nothing needs to be considered except the root
of your desire, which has become that
crystal sliver of pain that all the doctors told you
was a chronic headache but you suspect might be
the original nerve still pulsing, the ache
that has been with you, always.
So eat breakfast. Pack lightly. Then start your journey
to the deep water city, to the hotel on a hill above Repulse Bay.
What does it matter that you were "never meant to be here?"
What does it matter that when you speak to her she
will answer in French? You will be able to understand her
if you want to and she will know who you are.
Bring her a drink that tastes of melon. And as the sky
hangs out its starry animals--a fish, a bear,
a canny dog--tell her how long it took to form
these constellations. That human beings have named them.
That anything is possible and you, you are the proof.
Eleanor Lerman
6:14 AM
Dilettante Archives