Helen to the Sea

I become more guilty as I speak. I become
the skull cap of a leaf with shades
of pretense spreading down my veins--and me

poured into a vase--old root
yellow stem.
Pity that I'm alone now, screaming

like that man there--
just died last night.
Behold the stars,

aching; they smell
as warm dust clings
to a moth. I am the breath

of this moth. I am the light simmering
in the wood of my bed. I am
the sad pinnacle of these grasses.

I agreed with a thief, lover, agreed
to such small matters, despised
static like your foam--

and I close my eyes,
I forget the distance
my intimacy has caused.

I forget how angry
--like a swamp angry--
he was to see me happy

when the boy kissed my hand
--like a bird with teeth, my hand;
I wanted to have the thunder

kneel down
like the ghost of a mountain. The wind--
I am the breath

now. My eyes' breath, skin.
I can see the ships,
how they are sharp,

burning and small.
Very much I died when he left off
listening and I could leave off

speaking.
The great hands of Paris
have pressed my skin--

only my neck
leaned away.
Did you hear the slap?

It proved something--
but again, I forget.


-- published in So to Speak, A Feminist Journal of Language and Art (Volume 1, Number 2, Spring 1992)

Copyright Louise Robertson