West Somewhere of Whiskey Island
Composed in thirteen drafts
“I don’t believe in anyone who says love, love, love.
It means self, self, self.”
—Graham Greene, The Heart of the Matter
Like Proteus, her form would not resolve (When substance flickers, surely it is flame): I felt heroic holding her—stood firm— Bare feet in singing waves and stinging sand.
Texture and appearance—all sensation— Writhing as if desperate for release; Jealous, I clutched for each comfort eked By accident or intent—either—both…
I maintained my grip and wouldn’t, then, say why: A novel form of fear, the intimation That her double-mindedness demanded Conflict as proof-positive of passion.
Lust of flesh and eye, my pride of youth Had drawn me to her: how I longed to gaze And glory at her glance; to taste and touch; To drink her fire in to every sense.
God, with wisdom, gave us senses For the love of Him and His Creation… Why do I want less than what He wants for me? Narrowness and meanness—poverty.
The brushing of her lips; my dread of death— Or dying; our denial of the doom Which we both sensed above us; every thing We harboured superstitiously unspoken
Through the chase—her back and forth Revisions of positions, hopes, frustrations; Tender-foolish instances I took (Or mis-took, rather) for complete surrender…
And when, after all, she did permit my grasp To close upon her—did admit surrender— Then began the shapeshifting and struggle.
I believed—back then—we’d do no harm.Over time, suspicion grew from doubt To faltering to loosing my embrace. I sheltered hope against and for return As she caressed my cheek and went away.
I, too, left, in time, and we remained (As we said)… friends. Then ten years of back and forth Confusions, conversations, and confessions: Tantalizing, teasing—trying not to grapple.
Pride, desire, promises sincere and rash Grow such stubborn, toxic, brittle roots.
I regret so much I can’t express My gratitude, contrition… and relief At finally—I think—now—letting go.
We are, at last, more than halfway through what has been a rather bitter Winter, though Lent has only just begun. As ever, thank you for reading The Brass Bull, I hope this poem serves as something more pleasant than cold comfort.