The Maiden and Death

THE MAIDEN AND DEATH

These days I tire easily.
When I rise to follow out the light,
Death uncurls slowly in my shadow,
tiger-toeing from his armchair to my bedroom.
Tenderly he hushes the deathbed negotiations of a weakening sun,
and when it is done, he shoulders open the door,
and comes to me where I already rest, framed in white. And that
is when we talk. For three years I have medicated on this,
put myself to sleep with a shadow at my feet.
And I want to tell you,
       did you know I come back from the underworld every night? -
              and find I cannot. No words come to mind
but the painting of your lips I once made,
your mouth modelled the moment it had just taken its pleasure in me;
beautiful, but very blue. If not that,
then the sculpture of my heart, cast in the horrible knowledge
that one day, your brow will cool and not from sweat.
I am so sure you would not have wanted to know. Or
would you? That I have seen your mortality
and moved my hands in it. That this is an unwilling medium
through which you talk to your ghost.
That I told Death about you,
and we agreed that you are beautiful,
just in different colours.

I hope you’ll stay long enough for me to bring a cat home.
He’ll be black. At night, he will stay at our feet.
And this time we won’t say anything
but we’ll know that you’re beautiful.