The Sunday before the first expedition sails, I spot Josephine
he Sunday Before the First Expedition Sails, I Spot Josephine
And I notice a loud instance of laughter.
It comes out of the expanded lungs of a tall, corpulent man,
He is standing on the sidewalk opposite to me,
To me,
Not laughing.
I notice in me the arrival of envy.
It rose.
Like it rose.
Like the roses.
Full of red.
And then–it’s only natural as I go upstairs–I notice the two rings:
They are still here.
Untouched. Unmoved. Unrequited.
And they bring myself back to myself.
And they bring my body back to the situation of my body.
A little ill.
And they bring my soul to the grassy meadow of my soul,
As it is, unaccompanied by birds.
This very mute moment of realization:
The wedding rings here,
Their tiny black boxes.
And the voice on the margins comments: “This could have been our paradise.”
I take note in my heart of the song that spontaneously bursts in my computer.
It’s always that song, ha, I always sing it when it comes up to that,
To singing, to one part of myself, to History.
And the voice on the margins comments: “This past is now here.”
And though I look at the rings with full intent of gaze, it is impossible for me to see
the rings.
I see they’re circular and golden and, I assume,
Beautiful, as I abstract myself from the rings.
But when I come back to the rings,
I see my husband
And I see myself.
Two circles
Entrapped in the movement
Of migrations
And nimble citizenships.
And I move on to a new task,
To organize the whole,
Again,
To break free from the circle.
That is all I can do, after all,
I put order in a different sequence.
And then I spot Josephine in the crowd, so naturally!
She is running to me–running!
At the park on this nice evening at the very beginning of the fall,
It is perfect.
I should not forget this moment,
I should never forget how
This light,
Temperature,
Color,
Breeze,
How it is all grounded on itself, tightly
Finished by the delicate brush of Josephine
Running!
When she stops to say hi
To me,
To me!
Sitting down on the bench like no athlete,
I accidentally drop all my instruments on the ground,
So crisp is the whole.
She says sorry like it was her fault.
It’s the moment, I thought, it’s the moments’ crispy fault!
How it all falls.
Grounded.
And the voice on the margins comments: “The mute undivided present.”
And the moment suddenly closes onto itself and it’s over.
And with it over, there is nothing left,
The unknown quantity of my feelings runs away with her,
Away, away, away, away down the tree-lined pathway
With its withering leaves
Riding on the soft-yellow back of the sinking sun.