of Claudia Emerson's "Triptych"
'After the Affair'
There was no one to tell it to, so the guilt
settled in the lines of the house, in sills,
doorframes, ceilings. In the late afternoons
that followed, she heard what could have been someone
knocking, the cardinal beating its body against
the living room window as though desperate
to come inside. It could not see the space
beyond the glass, or know that it had been deceived
again into mistaking itself for something else.
At dusk, when the windows' slow reversal
released it, turning instead to her own face, disfamiliar,
terrible, she also knew the same desire
to fly into that room, that house, some other woman.
My improv':
There was nothing to deny, the words were there. And every word was mine.
I had told him sexy things, it's true. A modern-day coquette, sure. I didn't mean harm.
You should know I never loved him, just his songs. After the affair, I meant to pack
as much of you. But you made for worthless space. Instead, I filled the suitcase
with my selfish fancies: red wine and chocolate. Two sentiments no woman
can live without. But can live without a man, without his permanence anyway.
Shakespeare knew a woman, knew her instabilities and fickle beauty. Or was it
fickle heart, fleeting beauty? No, never- mind. I'm mistaking my women. That woman
didn't belong to Shakespeare. She didn't belong to any man in particular. Though she
was a righteous wife, found in her rightful place at the end of Proverbs. Or, now I think
of it, that woman did belong to a man. She was Hosea's. A whore of a wife. Yet
he loved her still. I bet it was only because God told him to. You should know, lover,
what I mean to say is sorry. That my wanton words were nothing. The crime not my own.
You never had to sit with the serpent, see the apple hanging in despair. So remember, lover,
it was a she who saved us.
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