J. D. McClatchy

Psychic

We must not want
            Too much to know.
            The god will go
                        The story warns—

And surely to taunt,
            A guttered candle,
            A wingéd sandal,
                        A stalking storm

Are left behind.
            The pillow’s cold
            Remorse withholds
                        What tears had spent.

The heart is blind
            (Its bloody rigors,
            Its sodden languors)
                        Is what I’d meant.
            What need to invent
            Another stranger?
You’d want to relent.

Or maybe not.
            Mine was steady
            So I was ready
                        For the startled eye.

But I’d forgot.
            Had you assured
            That pain will cure
                        Or satisfy?

That single drop,
            Its glistening descent
            A slow lament
                        For all so soon

Undone, on the slope
            Of your marble chest
            Burned its request.
                        The blister’s perfume
            Stayed in that room
            For years, undressed,
My gladness, my gloom.

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