mccarthyism

The Tall Liatris

Reading Housman late into the evening,
My wife asleep, the false bugbane, the white
Camas on the table, wilting

The ashy sunflower in a mug beside
Old magazines. Morrissey
Looks approvingly down from the wall

Who said, “Take me out tonight” and
“The pleasure and the privilege is mine,”
Meaning the same, more or less

As “About the woodlands I will go” –
Who liked Housman, liked his cherry
Hung with snow.

Who understood it, like I do, like my sleeping
Wife understands it. Driving to church,
Or sitting alone in the living room

In the late afternoon light.
Like we all understand it, like my
Brother, drawing to pass the time

Better pictures than I’ll ever draw,
Taking pleasure in things a way
I’ll never take: having (you might say)

Nothing more beyond. I found some harebell
And tall liatris, up behind the baseball fields
Between I-295 and Route 22,

Their tiny, sticky leaves opening to spring.
Shaking against the blue sky I
Found them, brought them home –

Found them incongruous, but made
A home for them on the kitchen table
On checked and soiled cloth.

Some find amid such beauty only
Empty pleasure, an end in itself.
I’m left to find amid such emptiness

Sticky green leaves, the tall liatris shaking,
The harebell tender, thin green and blue,
Wilting against checked cloth.

Oh I’ll pick them again, and again,
As many times as I must –
I’ll find them again, now I know where they are.

I threw myself down on the ground,
Weeping I embraced it.
I kissed it like Alyosha.