“Sometimes I think that when I finally slough off these stagnant clothes, I may not stand as naked as I imagine and some intangible vestments may still clothe the eternal absence of my true soul.”
-Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet
Eyes adjudging her,
mouths silent for it is about to be sung,
they call for lights down in longing,
double doors dead-bolted against uncaring.
Delving hurt, twelve strings murmur,
and she plunges far inside
her fragrant wardrobe of yearning,
body so like upthrust basalt
only her out-speaking hands
can lift the racked voice she tries on
then slowly slips off like a sequined cocktail dress
quietly ripped after dance turned to tears and shock.
Then he rises solitary from his small table
secreted in the landing’s murk,
bows to her twice,
rifles his own sorrowed bureau,
ice-seared words donned in dust-moted air,
draping them fluid-stiff over thin shoulders
like a white linen suit worn
only for a wrecked proposal,
like a fine vesture
become Pessoa’s old clothes,
so shaped to his woe,
so pained to abandon.