The living must ultimately
triumph over the dead
and outlive them in moderate calm,
In twenty weeks
my grief gave way to faint stirrings of guilt.
In the gauzy sleep of dawn
I had not lain against him
for fifteen years or more
I had tried as satiated wives did
to wean him off desire
My celibacy flowed like a river in spate
between the twin beds in our room
There are no memories that enthral,
no fond phrase capsuled in thought,
It was never a husband and wife bond.
We were such a mismated pair,
Yet there were advantages, I admit
he was free to exploit and I was free
to be exploited.
We were quits at every game we played
I could have been Sita to his Rama
had I been given half a chance.
I reared three sons,
he was too busy to watch them grow
but he it was who wore the faded face
that they recognised as their father’s.
His was the heavy tread
heard on the gravel at dusk
He peered into his office files
and the children got up to sleep
I cannot recollect a film
a play or a concert he took us to
or a joke which together we shared.
He was like a bank locker
steely cold and shut
or a filing cabinet that
only its owner could unlock
Not for a moment did I own him.
Only a few bed-bound chores
executed well, tethered him to me.
Emotion was never a topic
brought up in our home
although for long it remained
as grist for the tales that the night
and I, combined, produced.
Do I miss him?
Of course, I do, for larger than life
was he. I miss that brusque voice
sending out the trays
hugging their manuscripts
meekly as unwed mothers did
their illegitimate offspring
I miss his censoring my daily mail
his screening each phone call
and the insulation of his care.