Psyche in Somerville

I am angry with X, with Y, with Z,

for not being you.

Enthusiasms jump at me,

wagging and barking. Go away.

Go home.

I am angry with my eyes for not seeing you,

they smart and ache and see the snow,

an insistent brilliance.

If I were Psyche how could I not

bring the lamp to our bedside?

I would have known in advance

all the travails my gazing

would bring, more than Psyche

ever imagined,

and even so, how could I not have raised

the amber flame to see

the human person I knew

was to be revealed.

She did not even know! She dreaded

a beast and discovered

a god. But I

know, and hunger

to witness again the form

of mortal love itself.

I am angry with everything that is filling

the space of your absence,

breathing your air.

Psyche,

how blessed you were

in the dark, knowing him in your flesh:

I was wrong! If I were Psyche

I would live on in darkness, and endure

the foolish voices, barking of aeolian dogs,

the desert glitter

of days full of boring treasures,

walking on precious stones till my feet hurt,

to hold you each night and be held

close in your warmth in a pitchblack cave of a room

and not have to wait

for Mercury, dressed in the sad gray coat of a mailman

and no wings on his feet,

to bring me your words.

Source: Poems 1972-1982 (New Directions Publishing Corporation, 2002)