Elizabeth Jennings(1926–2001)
One Flesh
Lying a p a r t n o w , e a c h i n a s e p a r a t e b e d ,
H e w i t h a b o o k , k e e p i n g t h e light o n late,
S h e like a girl d r e a m i n g of c h i l d h o o d ,
All m e n e l s e w h e r e — i t is as if t h e y w a i t
Some new event: the book he holds unread,
Her eyes fixed on the shadows overhead.
Tossed up like flotsam from a former passion,
How cool they lie. They hardly ever touch,
Or if t h e y do it is like a c o n f e s s i o n
Of having little feeling—or too much.
C h a s t i t y f a c e s t h e m , a d e s t i n a t i o n
F o r w h i c h t h e i r w h o l e lives w e r e a p r e p a r a t i o n .
Strangely apart, yet strangely close together,
S i l e n c e b e t w e e n t h e m like a t h r e a d to hold
A n d n o t w i n d in. A n d t i m e itself's a f e a t h e r
T o u c h i n g t h e m gently. D o t h e y k n o w they're old,
T h e s e two w h o a r e m y f a t h e r a n d m y m o t h e r
Whose fire from which I came, has now grown co
JHN ASHBERY
b. 1927