Casa Robino

Do not imagine you can abdicate Auden PrologueIf the sea could dream, and if the seawere dreaming now, the dreamwould be the usual one: Of the Flesh.The letter written in the dream would gosomething like: Forgive me—love, Blue. *I. The Viewing (A Chorus)O what, then, did he look like? He had a good body.And how came you to know this? His body was naked.Say the sound of his body. His body was quiet.Say again—quiet? He was sleeping.You are sure of this? Sleeping? Inside it, yes. Inside it. *II. PavilionSometimes, a breeze: a canvasflap will rise and, inside,someone stirs; a bird? a flower?One is thinking Should there bethirst, I have only to reachfor the swollen bag of skinbeside me, I have only to touchmy mouth that is meant for a flowerto it, and drink.One is for now certain he isone of those poems that stop only;they do not end.One says without actually saying itI am sometimes a book of such poems,I am other times a flower and lovelypressed like so among them, butalways they forget me.I miss my name.They are all of them heat-weary, anxious for evening as forsome beautiful to the bonemessenger to come. They will openagain for him. His hands are good.His message is a flower. *III. The Tasting (A Chorus)O what, then, did he taste like? He tasted of sorrow.And how came you to know this? My tongue still remembers.Say the taste that is sorrow. Game, fallen unfairly.And yet, you still tasted? Still, I tasted.Did you say to him something? I could not speak, for hunger. *IV. InteriorAnd now,the candle blooms gorgeously awayfrom his hand—and the light has madeblameless all overthe body of him (mystery,mystery), twelvefoldshining, by grace of twelvemirrors the moth can’t stopattending. Singly, in no order,it flutters against, beatsthe glass of each one,as someone elsewhereis maybe beating upona strange door now,somebody knocksand knocks at a newcountry, of whichnothing is understood—no danger occursto him, thoughdanger could be anyof the unusually wildflowersthat, either side of the road,spring.When he slows, bends down andcloser, to see orto take one—it is as ifhe knows something to tell it. *V. The Dreaming (A Chorus)O what, then, did it feel like? I dreamed of an arrow.And how came you to know him? I dreamed he was wanting.Say the dream of him wanting. A swan, a wing folding.Why do you weep now? I remember.Tell what else you remember. The swan was mutilated. *EnvoiAnd I came to where was nothing but drowningand more drowning, and saw to where the sea—besides flesh—was, as well, littered with boats,how each was blue but trimmed with white, to eacha name I didn’t know and then, recalling,did. And ignoring the flesh that, burning, givesmore stink than heat, I dragged what boats I couldto the shore and piled them severally in a tree-less space, and lit a fire that didn’t takeat first—the wood was wet—and then, helped bythe wind, became a blaze so high the seaitself, along with the bodies in it, seemedto burn. I watched as each boat fell to flame:Vincent and Matthew and, last, what bore your name.