 |
 |
|
|
The sick girl goes to the famous doctor
and he says, The weaker vessel is born of water
but you, Dear, thirst! Your eyes are red
from it. Truly, her sorrow'd been meat, tears
her only drink. Understood for the first time,
she sighs and takes the cure, her
will resigned to liquid. He knows her
as a lover or father might. The doctor
keeps her as tides keep time.
Days pass in a regime of water:
hot wet towels, enemas, thirty glasses a day. Tears
lose their salt, piss to vodka, clear of red.
She gives up bright frocks, the beloved red
hair ribbon that so became her,
gives up kid slippers. And tears,
no longer flavorful, the Doctor
keeps, saves them with other water,
shaken, stirred, cured with time
in vats large enough for drowning. A time-
tested recipe for the sorrow of red-
eyed girls who come and go, his New Water
of Michelangelo, this he gives her--
mystery, this debt to Doctor.
Benign as rain or virgin's tears,
she thinks she drinks tap, not tears
from girls now dead or well, their time
here come and gone. To her the Doctor
is hers alone, wears the red
carnation in button hole for her,
builds the fountains and water
gardens for her, his Water
Lily. And by now she's forgotten tears,
and thinks only, slowly, of her
newness. Do I dare, at this time,
eat a peach? Here inside the red
walls of steam room and deep voice of Doctor--
Doctor-- I'm on the rocks, eating peaches, red hair flying in salt air.
Time for tears
and pearls, those strangers! Each to each!
The sea-girl sings,
being me, in deep sea water. I'm her, seaward, on the black waves.
home|about this site|next sestina