Afterthoughts on the Lovers

Lisel Mueller

I imagine them always in summer,
with roses running a loose-lipped hazard
around their book, as butterflies
poised in the net of noon:
I think of her silent, wholly brought
under siege by his voice, staring
her fever down to the marble squares,
hearing and trying not to hear
how sweetly Lancelot plagued the queen.

What if they had outlived
their full-blown summer, had dwindled
into the blight of autumn
and trees shedding their leaves
had brought them dreams, such dreams-
if mind on the prowl for flesh
had set its teeth on love
and pointed fingers at their furtiveness?

What if no violence
had sealed their immortality
for us, who need to think of love
as a fixed sun, impervious to our passing
in and out of the shade?