Everything has been taken care of,
The papers are filed,
Most of the photographs mislaid
In
a cigar-box.
Only this propped-up pose remains,
Rigid on the mantel in pious memory.
While you were dying I shuddered
At every jolt of pain that shot through you,
Watched as you speechlessly
Contorted with a numb tongue
To speak of your dying.
I was told I would forget that
And retain the memory of you
In
the sounds of your husky laughter,
Your charm in company,
The glee you took in never
Saying goodbye on the telephone.
It
isn't true. "True feeling
Leaves no memory," as Stendhal said.
It
has left me nothing of you
But reminders that remind me of nothing.
Besides, only grief, sleeplessness,
Infant despair, betrayal.
These are you. I know nothing else
About you any more. I live behind glass,
Framed as tightly as your picture,
As
frozen, as rigid, as blind.
How can I keep in touch
When there
is
nothing to touch?
Peter Davison
