A full moon at the moment of perigee, after the sun
had been south and shining
down on a frowning Tropic of Capricorn.
Where they were, the days were shortest, nights longest;
a flooded coast was possible, a fallen star
had been seen. Where have you been?
the other asked. It was a difficult question.
Louise stood tall and, instead of an answer, said,
Sheep feed, and pointed to the unruly grass.
Quack, went a duck. The farmhouse was full,
every room fitted out in finest array.
Sweet Isabellita had finished her food and now played
not with a doll but a small pink flamingo.
Charles Gordon, as usual, was playing the fool.
Someone was sure to announce soon
that, the day being more or less done, it was time
to concede, to accept,
that little loss that the clockface maintained,
the gone that O echoed over and over as it walked
on the edge of apology. Ham summoned her
into the house. She was in a most cooperative mood,
a late state of appreciation. She carried, in one hand, a copy
of Mrs. Dalloway; in the other, a fistful of blooms
she’d retrieved from the foggy shore of the twining river.
It was cool. There was moss on the rock wall
the same shrill color of the hooded coat she wore.
That too was in the family of rapture, every twinning bit
of what made up the murmur of the scaffolding folding itself
into itself. And with poor skill let pass into the breeze
the dull shell’s echo. With a honk and a hoot,
a car pulled into the drive and Lydia stepped out.
They all came running to greet her, to tell what must be told,
and tell it well, omitting what didn’t matter
to one who had missed the day. Where had she been?
they all asked, when she had settled into a chair
in front of a billowing fire. Where, indeed!
I dreamed, she said, my death;
an ambulance and a man named Dan
took me to a morgue and you were all there, at least you three—
she gestured to Ham, Louise, and Charles G.
Her audience sat in stunned silence as she continued
her uncommon tale of descent and ascension
into a patient brilliance. Light, said Louise.
Not quite, said Lydia. For it was beyond saying, this sense
of sudden change. All the same, she attempted
to describe the effect: Like basking, she said, in the end
that is no end at all but is more like an endless beginning.
Some looked vexed but Louise understood.
For wasn’t that her story as well? Wasn’t that the story
she’d been retelling into some dear’s ear
for what seemed now forever? Wasn’t that the small car
that changed color as it passed on its way to the zoo?
Wasn’t that the kiss on the eyelids by sleep as it opened
the door to excess? There one was quite likely to meet
an okapi on a long leash, the zookeeper out for a walk.
The lovey-dovey muddlement of an arbitrary set
of bizarre incidents. Hunting in a fluted skirt for another farewell,
Louise thought. From a vase, the roses stared
like oxen. The air was gin-clear. On closer inspection,
the flowers were artificial, cut from sardine tins.
The two terriers, Autumn and Autumn, were wrapped
in a haze of giving. Each a cake
of soap holding the hand that had shaped it.