|
by Fred Chappell
Aunt Mae and Uncle Don have been
Married for fifty (my God!) years.
No one recalls when they began
To look like one another from ears
To ankles, the way some couples do
As decades intertwine their tastes
And distastes, hopes, and tacit fears.
Their features blur and soften, their waists
Thicken simultaneously,
Their eyesights fail together; she
Can't see what Uncle Don can't see.
And these resemblances don't end
With spouse and spouse. They seem to blend,
This childless duo, into their near
Vicinities, so that their house,
Their dog, their cat, their ancient car
Take on aspects of their face
And form. So long they've been together
That they comprise a private weather
That transforms all into a gray
And muted landscape unbrightened by
Any odd or colorful detail,
Where every day's another day
Arriving, departing without fail
Under a low and motionless sky.
They're all alone together, we say,
But is it true? Presences
May range about them invisibly
To us; dim silent entities
Of dark desire and long remorse
May haunt their twilight universe
Of sweet or bitter memories
That Time has worn almost away...
But that's at best a vague surmise.
In the noisy parlor they sit near;
She on the sofa, he in a chair,
And while we wonder why they're here,
Perhaps they wonder if we're there.
Return to top of page
|
