Public Republic

Roger Craik

Photo: HAMED MASOUMI

Although he doesn’t know it, these days are the last
Of his marriage. Perhaps he’s reading now
On his side of the bed, beneath his lamp, while you
Peruse the book of myths my father bought
Second-hand, in England, twenty years ago.
His name is written in the front, in fountain pen.

I’ve hated him, or rather, I should say,
The thought of him for close on fifteen months.
But on this evening with late summer rain
Drumming warm against the windows of my house
That gives upon the lake, I ask myself
If it’s indulgence, now you say your future’s mine.

That now it’s him, him whose pain at once seems real,
I think of as he turns to sleep
Toward you still, your face turned to the wall,
And hopes tomorrow you’ll be once again
As once you were
To him.

And suddenly, as thought folds darkly into thought,
I realize how much, this moment, now,
Over a bottle, or maybe two,
Of red wine in some café that he’d choose,
I’d like to talk with him, just him,
About Stravinsky, Brendan Behan, the price of birdseed by the pound –

Anything.

Poem from the volume of poetry “Those Years“