Desperate to have him with me
I bought a bust of Pallas Athena
to put over my study door
I bought a bright red cushion
to sit center while I weep and sigh
and languish for his true love
I miss him enough to seek
supernatural help, and hope
he will walk in even as an owl
to hoot "who" whenever I say
I cannot let him go again ever
that I rue the unfair year apart
Before he died, that unfair year
when we were too angry to stay
and too stubborn to speak while
never wanting nor hurting more
and then, the heart attack came
and took him with no goodbyes
O, Mr. Poe, tell me about the year
before you lost your Leonore
Were you sweet? Did you speak?
Did you embrace and kiss her face?
Or were you more like an angry crow
with no wits to know how fast it goes?
And most of all, Mr. Poe, I want to know
whether your Raven became welcome
or no? Was it forever punishment,
or is it reward? Was it inner or outer,
called or sent . . . I have to know! What
meant the bird? Relief or horror?
I'm leaning here on my pillow waiting
for the knock I know will come, and I
will have him near again, my dear,
whatever your answer. The wind
ceases, the day leaves, and I sense a
presence just beyond my door, now
I'm leaning here on my pillow, staring
at Athena's bust. Did she hear a knock,
I wonder? Did I? The hairs on my arms
did, I am certain. It is time to open the door--
and yet I lean here and hesitate to go
What is there to fear, I want to know . . .
Posted for Fireblossom Friday: Do You Believe In Magic? on Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads, where Fireblossom asks us to write something of which Edgar Allan Poe would be proud. I have written to Mr. Poe as the author of "The Raven" and perhaps the lover of a lost Leonore.