Melisande
(In Paris in 1904, Lily - deserted wife
of composer Claude Debussy - recounts
her suicide attempt among the statues.)
What do you do?
I couldn't bring myself
to write a "you're untrue"
type letter. It wouldn't do.
They're coming
back from Jersey now,
he and his fat old woman.
What did I do?
How did I let him down?
I would take him back
in a heartbeat,
despite this indiscreet
and ugly business,
the talk of the town.
What did I lack?
Next Wednesday marks five.
If I'm still alive,
I'll pass it alone.
He's got his old crone.
How did it come to this?
How did I miss?
He begged me
to be his wife.
If not, he'd take his life.
What does anything mean?
I didn't have a plan.
Just insupportable pain.
I wandered about in the rain,
nursing the revolver in my purse.
I passed the Madeleine
and Strasbourg, in black,
and knew I wasn't going back.
Between the Obelisk and Brest
I held the damn thing
to my chest.
The rest's a blur.
I woke up here in the Hotel Dieu.
They said it's lodged,
the lump of lead,
behind my heart.
It has to stay there.
Far too near
a vertebra to operate.
At any rate,
I'll wear his souvenir
until I'm dead.
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