(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.
Preparing The Lips for repeated groans
And The Heart for as many moans,
Left long in it one’s contacting phone:
“To whom it concerns I’m pitiably alone!”
Suffering never was a stepping stone
To our Remote-Controlled Throne,
For all its merits steadily overblown
And at Non-sufferers readily thrown …
Some bit Suffering releases in The Grown
With the doggedness he’d sown:
The often insupportable lighter,
The Rather Darker, Much Brighter
Tasked legs that no longer totter
A furnace now cooler that was hotter.
Still, The Never Ceasing Suffering
Keeps Singular Pain Offering
And as a spring board
The Regionally Broad.
Faster advancing The Dish-Washing American
Than A Nigerian Mover of filled Jerry can.
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