Saturday, July 18, 2020

VI. The Sinking River at Stevensport

Closing your eyes, you can see 
What nobody ever saw:  
It is midnight, past midnight,  
The figure just visible  
In the moonless, dew-laden dark 
Where river empties into  
River, and the water makes  
No sound, or a sound like time, 
Which stands still now on the bank. 
He, too, stands still on the bank, 
Late-summer night wind whipping 
The white linen of his coat-  
For, yes, he always did have  
A sense of style in such things.  
Behind him, the white car shines 
Under what starlight there is.  
He stares at what stars there are 
And remembers—or does he?- 
The flowered dress he bought you 
And raised above your waist here 
So you could straddle his lap. 
Does he think of the river  
Lit at Louisville, where some- 
Thing he can hardly admit  
To himself happened?—happened 
To you, though you both agreed 
It was the best thing to do. . . . 
Does he speak aloud now to  
No one? Does he say a name? 
Does he say your name before  
He walks into the river?  
Or does he just walk away?  
You must believe both stories  
Till the world makes up its mind. 
Either way, the white car shines 
As dawn fights the water, and
 -—All this behind your closed eyes—— 
That wide water seems to hold 
The dead in their element.  

- Joe Bolton, from "The Last Nostalgia"

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