Tue, 28 Jan 2014
The clock we gave her on her eighteenth birthday,
ticks, stoically, on; a largo beat, more than suits the mood
of this room – perfumed, still, by patchouli, musk,
sandalwood and vanilla;
nothing upsetting the status quo, it would suggest,
except – trash her many incense trays
cinereous in their waste –
ashes to ashes,
dust to dust.
Her piano mocks me, yet, with its silence;
unplayed, untouched; the lid – up
as it always was.
Her latest piece – The Goldberg Variations
still open at the final page. I can hear her playing, now,
in my head. How she perennially stumbled
on the C minor chord in the very last bar...
Practice, sorely neglected since she’d been elsewhere,
busy dying, as she wrote in her diary – no time
for other things.
Blitz her wardrobe – bag up her clothes – her books,
photos and pictures stacked in cardboard boxes
to look through, later; couldn’t help but notice,
some she’d never shown me.
Putting two and two together, surmise
this would have been her husband’s muse – the one
intended to replace her as soon as she’d
slipped this mortal coil...
stood in for her when she became too sick
to satisfy his needs – sexual, or otherwise;
so much like her – could have been her twin.
Clear the kitchen cupboards – spices squirreled
on her trip of a lifetime to India, Thailand,
and Vietnam. Take some home with me
and chuck the rest; nothing else for it –
half used, and past their best.
So tell me why, for pity's sake, as I bin them
it’s the same as throwing a living, breathing
part of her away?