Constance

by Jane Kenyon

  after the blaze of open afternoon.

  How good the earth smelled,​

  as it had when he was a boy​

  hiding from his father,​

  who was intent on strapping him

  for doing his chores​

  late one time too many.

  A cowbird razzed from a rail fence.

  It isn’t mockery, he thought,​

  no malice in it. . . just a noise.

  Stray bullets nicked the oaks​

  overhead. Leaves and splinters fell.

  Someone near him groaned.

  But it was his own voice he heard.

  His fingers and feet tingled,​

  the roof of his mouth,​

  and the bridge of his nose. . . .

  He became dry, dry, and thought​

  of Christ, who said, I thirst.

  His man-smell, the smell of his hair​

  and skin, his sweat, the salt smell​

  of his cock and the little ferny hairs​

  that two women had known

  left him, and a sharp, almost sweet​

  smell began to rise from his open mouth​

  in the warm shade of the oaks.

  A streak of sun climbed the rough​

  trunk of a tree, but he did not​

  see it with his open eye.

  Pharaoh

  “The future ain’t what it used to be,”​

  said the sage of the New York Yankees​

  as he pounded his mitt, releasing​

  the red dust of the infield​

  into the harshly illuminated evening air.

  Big hands. Men with big hands​

  make things happen. The surgeon,​

  when I asked how big your tumor was,​

  held forth his substantial fist​

  with its globed class ring.

  Home again, we live as charily as strangers.​

  Things are off: Touch rankles, food​

  is not good. Even the kindness of friends​

  turns burdensome; their flowers sadden​

  us, so many and so fair.

  I woke in the night to see your​

  diminished bulk lying beside me—​

  you on your back, like a sarcophagus​

  as your feet held up the covers. . . .

  The things you might need in the next​

  life surrounded you—your comb and glasses,​

  water, a book and a pen.

  Otherwise

  I got out of bed​

  on two strong legs.

  It might have been​

  otherwise. I ate​

  cereal, sweet​

  milk, ripe, flawless​

  peach. It might​

  have been otherwise.

  I took the dog uphill​

  to the birch wood.

  All morning I did​

  the work I love.

  At noon I lay down​

  with my mate. It might​

  have been otherwise.

  We ate dinner together​

  at a table with silver​

  candlesticks. It might​

  have been otherwise.

  I slept in a bed​

  in a room with paintings​

  on the walls, and​

  planned another day​

  just like this day.

  But one day, I know,​

  it will be otherwise.

  Notes from the Other Side

  I divested myself of despair​

  and fear when I came here.

  Now there is no more catching​

  one’s own eye in the mirror,

  there are no bad books, no plastic,​

  no insurance premiums, and of course

  no illness. Contrition​

  does not exist, nor gnashing

  of teeth. No one howls as the first​

  clod of earth hits the casket.

  The poor we no longer have with us.​

  Our calm hearts strike only the hour,

  and God, as promised, proves​

  to be mercy clothed in light.