There’s only one time when you were perfect for loving in life, and if you miss that time, if you ignore it or pass it by, you’ve really missed something. James Salter I Autumn wind, the leaves a golden mash at our feet in the kind, quiet blaze of the streetlight; I am taking your arm under the umbrella, leaning into you, waiting, imagining sweet violences. My tongue is stoppered; its unfamiliar ecstasies. I cannot say any of this here, in ordinary streets, in the woods around home, walking into the warmth and taking off my woolen hat, putting on records. I can only take off one glove and press my palm to your cheek, for a moment, a sort of sigh, the whole world made of lavender and foxglove, of those dreams we have but don’t discuss, of bedsheets and mornings, our circling talk. I call you old Zeus, your big, noble head, your serious heart I haven’t yet dived through, even after everything; Primrose Hill, that dream of fireworks and port and staying on the train. I want to hear you say it, that we’re the children of a king and we’ve nowhere to go but a cottage built on other peoples’ sorrow. II And now you’re leaving me to find out what’s in store? You talk of fate, of oracles: this is the future, here. You have no need of seers. What was that, on the Heath, your last birthday, a willow tree for heaven, our legs entwined, the cricket songs of June — you smelled of soap and suncream and we were still nervous of each other. You think there’s another path? If you have to find it out I’ll come with you. You think I fear the sea, that wrecking clown. I’d sooner face the fiercest waves than see you off, handkerchief in hand. If what waits is death, let’s both meet it: being here alone is worse than that, the sudden silence, not knowing if you’ll come. III I’ve come to know the morning, first light in the window, fussing around, making endless tea. You not here is impossible; I want to send a note, a ghost message, I can’t bear not speaking, not knowing how to reach you. It’s Friday morning and it’s snowing and I’ve just walked through the white woods to the station and I wish you were coming round this afternoon to talk about the snow, and have toast, and sit with me with the fire on, and tell me about your worries because I do quite miss you. IV I’ve been preparing to have you back, trying on dresses, darning the old reliables, the gloves you left; I’m fixing up the drawers, all busy work. These past nights I haven’t seen you, and it’s made me feel afraid, but now you’ve come to me again. There’s something unfamiliar in your face, this isn’t how you move, as if a stranger was impersonating, uncannily — but still, I’d know you anywhere. Why are you so pale, dear heart, what is it that you want to say? What’s this dullness in your eye, this slow and faltering speech? V So this is what we’re left, these seven days a year, the wind died down around us, enough to live on, just about. Lighter, no less in love, glutted on the memory of being young, our onetime flesh. You made a promise early on, to pretend I wasn’t all your daylight, that the world’s voice was no louder than the peace we’d briefly found, that you didn’t know I’d walk out on it all, and wanted to. That I chose you. VI I’ve come down to the shore, the pebbled place I saw you last, the last spot where you held me; it was here, I think, these very stones, your shadow fell across that final time, where mine now falls, alone, stretching its arms towards you, further than I can. How can you be gone when I still love you? When I can call out to you in whichever tense I choose. Come home. VII Though it’s so far off I know it’s you, that you’ve returned. Before I pause to think I’m wading out, the sea is ice, I’m packed for the grave as yesterday’s catch. Kingfisher, heart’s bird, I dive into your death like catching headfirst fish. I swallow all your scales and feel alive.
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