Sans Merci
Away, the maid called in her small voice,
and Severn pulled the tray away, up
on its polished ropes, up
from Rome's rain-washed Spanish Steps:
rabbit flanks on a pewter plate,
a linen napkin's cool meringue, all climbing
the inn's exterior wall, then pulled
through a window where Keats lay dying.
And down again, the residue—
bone shards and cloth, dappled by grease
and arterial blood. Up came the brisket
and boiled trout,
although, at last,
Keats favored the gleam that enclosed them,
the silver cloches and water flask,
the glint of the rope-cupped silver tray—
bright, steadfast star—eclipsing
the window's aperture. Away, he said,
then down by its ropes the untouched,
soft-fleshed shape swayed, ration
and glint, back toward the small-voiced maid—
beautiful, surely, in her dark cloak,
her hunger sharp but her step
light, as she turned past the inn's chilled wall
to ferret it all away.
Back |
