BATH, ENGLAND
Caroline straightens sky maps stacked
on the harpsichord. She dusts a telescope
that William says makes the sky seem close.
It costs dearly, but an unmarried man
can afford to indulge his curiosity.
Sometime I’ll show you how to use it.
Caroline shines William’s shoe buckles,
cuts out ruffles for his shirts, sings
musical scales shaped by mathematics and air.
Every morning, she sets out coffee, rolls,
and currant jelly for William, who speaks
to her less in German and more in English.
She practices new words in the marketplace,
but mostly points as she chooses cherries and cider,
selects beef from the butcher. The new language
feels dense as a forest with no way out.
All the trees look alike.
But by winter, instead of Kohl, she says “cabbage,”
asks for “sausage” instead of Wurst.
She sings entirely in English, breathing deep
into her belly, finding sounds that skim the ceiling.
She aims for the sky, which every night
reminds her that what looks small is truly grand.