Absence (2003)

She who did not come, wasn’t she determined
nonetheless to organize and decorate my heart?
If we had to exist to become the one we love,
what would the heart have to create?
— Rilke, "Blank Joy,"
transl. A. Poulin Jr.

How many times did I arrive at
the beach as a child to Christmas,
expecting to receive in equal
measure to what I dreamed?
Only the sea is as wide and deep
as my longing, and I always
expected it to serve up Venus
from its foam, blue-eyed,
red hair in wet ropes, her nipples
savage as a breaking wave.
But such prayers for salvation
crashed and ebbed: instead of
love I found salt breeze hot sun
and long foaming rollers,
a womb empty of all
but the sea’s spindrift son.
Later I walked that beach
enraged at the absence
which sucked like an undertow
the sum of all my desires:
and, later still, tried to
plunge myself into metaphors,
lying on that dazzling beach
as if the day’s drowse were
the result of something close
to kisses and plunge.
No chance. The day just
drew on, arcing and settling
to the west as I slowly
trudged home empty-handed.
Even so, today’ I’m grateful
so many unharboring surges
spilled on my unslaked heart:
the way a blind man
thanks the roundness in his hand
he’ll never see again. For
him the world is breast
at once past his lips
and too heavy high up
the orchard tree. I am
the love who missed that dance
at midnight by the crashing sea
rolling out these inked breakers
of salt infinity,
my dream of love of more
booming miles down the shore.