A Space in Time
Last night I saw your
mother,
dead these many years,
climbing stairs in an old
building, stairs
wide, marbled pink and
green, the flights
twenty, perhaps thirty steps
between landings.
I heard footsteps, and
glancing over the balustrade
I saw her.
I called to her, two floors
below,
but she, looking up
only a moment, declined to
speak.
I leapt, two, four steps at
a time,
and saw her disappearing
through a door;
I followed.
The room, large, panelled in
waxy oak,
reminded me of my college
Common Room,
and everyone there
stared as I entered.
They all seemed to know me,
but they were not as I first
thought – people, yes,
but somehow other than
themselves.
A girl came towards me,
asking the others,
Can I touch him
as though it required
consent
of all, for this gathering
of faint energies
(some I saw right through)
to share
a space in time, its senses
recollected.
But when she touched me, she
said only,
No, he’s not the one, and
the others knew,
and looked away.
I
wanted you to know, last night
I saw your mother, dead
these many years,
and I,
along the stairs,
hear someone calling too,
but I no longer know myself
to answer, as one you see in
dreams,
at first, and then you see
right through.
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