Dis Enchanted

[carose59]

Dis  Enchanted


When the papers came in the mail,
the envelope seemed wrong, somehow      inadequate
ordinary.

It was mid-afternoon Friday hot August turning-to-cool.
	The morning-glories had bloomed;
	the four-o'clocks had not;       they were waiting.

I was wearing a red gauze blouse and jeans.
       I took the envelope to the backyard       looked at the flowers.
              I took off my shoes
                                     dragged the lawn chair to the pine tree shade
                                                                        near the flowers.
For a while I sat, watching a bee
feeling the age-old heat.              Then I opened the envelope.

On top was a bit of lightheartedness       I was confused at first
                                                                   but then I remembered--
                                                                          my spoonful of sugar
                                                                to go with the cyanide capsule.

I tried to read it first--dessert first?
                  saving the best for last?
I tried to lose myself in the pleasant, articulate humor,
but I couldn't stop thinking about what lay in my lap, 

waiting.  

I stuffed the fluff piece back in the envelope, pulled out
 the
 ugly
 Xeroxes,

tossed the envelope on the ground at my feet.

I read.

And somewhere, something emptied out of me.

I had been standing on a precipice, and now I fell, uncaring.

                                                          It was not like flying;
 it was simply gravity




 doing what it does.

I tried to summon up anger;
          I had been so angry at so many things lately,
                        reasonably or not.  But there the cupboard was bare.

I didn't cry.                    I didn't feel anything.               I didn't cry.

I read all the words again

       Then I went in the house to take a nap.
                 I closed my eyes and listened,

 but the voice that had already faded to a whisper
                                                                        was gone.

                                                          I slept alone.


I left the papers on the floor next to my bed,
       safe in their ordinary envelope.

I still haven't read the other piece.  But every night I take those
                                         pages out       and
      read them again before I go to sleep

the way I would run my fingers over the scar
          if I could find it;

the way I would lie in the hot dry dirt on the grave of my heart.


        I can deconstruct them in a confused way,
                   argue with them laconically,
but I cannot talk about them.
                                                  I can read their lie of spirit,
                                                  know it for what it is,
but I still can't find what drained out of me into the August heat.

All that is left is a dull, blunt hatred for the loss.
And I still sleep alone.