Courtney Hilden
At first, it will
seem to hold
fast
to you, like a bat
to night. You will drive
up the dark,
fooling yourself into believing
you can
chart its ombres. You will busy
yourself with other
tasks: prying
loose the ship’s planks, boarding
up the windows, breaking down
the packages, taking
up that long-
wanted hobby of composing
aubades. One day, as you are
greeting
the dawn, the morning will
remind you
of them. You will ask yourself when
was the last
time. You will not recall
it was when you heard
a love song.
It may slip
away
in parts—
the pronunciation, or the spelling, before
dissolving completely
like macaroni
necklaces. It may come back momentarily, in
parts: the syllable rhythm, its sense
it was poetry in another life. You will resolve
yourself to distraction: the aforementioned other
lovers, new names
for forgetting, fresh
partings, nocturne
serenades. Some
thing will finally rise
up out of the black
waters to grab
hold of you. With renewed
attention you will
admire how he picks
at his bones. With affection,
you will hold
his hands so the wounds
may heal. While out, one day,
as you and he lay waste
together, they will
approach
you. After the initial
greeting they will
wait.
For once, the silence
will love you, favour
you
instead. Don’t you
remember
me? You will tilt
your head to one
side. Unintentionally,
their portrait of you will begin
to melt like untempered
clay.
***
Courtney Hilden’s work has been published in Bustle, More of Us, Panning for Poems, Dodging the Rain, among others.