Poem for 2/1/23 - Ardor by Donald Hall

 

                 Ardor

                    by Donald Hall 

Nursing her I felt alive

in the animal moment,

scenting the predator.

Her death was the worst thing

that could happen,

and caring for her was best. 

 

After she died I screamed,

upsetting the depressed dog.

Now I no longer

address the wall covered

with many photographs,

nor call her “you”

in a poem. She recedes

into the granite museum

of Jane Kenyon 1947-1995. 

 

I long for the absent

woman of different faces

who makes metaphors

and chops onion, drinking

a glass of Chardonnay,

oiling the wok, humming

to herself, maybe thinking

how to conclude a poem.

When I make love now,

something is awry.

Last autumn a woman said,

“I mistrust your ardor.” 

 

This winter in Florida

I loathed the old couples

my age who promenaded

in their slack flesh 

holding hands. I gazed

at young women with outrage

and desire – unable to love

or to work, or to die. 

 

Hours are slow and weeks 

rapid in their vacancy.

Each day lapses as I recite

my complaints. Lust is grief

that has turned over in bed

to look the other way.