Triangle

I.

Sleeping

waking;

between them, I saw

angels. Only

when I grew older

did I understand.

Even then, angel

was not too exalted

a title for her, because she could not be reached.

I was not sad, not to see

her often, nor jealous,

to see her on other men's arms. Dimness

suited me, made me forget.

That she loved me

was revelatory to a fond dog,

dogged only for her, a man to stand

on two feet for anyone

else. Her choice was her weapon;

I, amazed, yielded to it. To fight

for her was to fight for everything

that mattered. In loving

she made me something better. Now,

there is doubt.

My claim to her

is love.

II.

The second son of a second son,

I was born to follow—

Duty, duty, not desire

By degrees, becoming hollow.

She was old, even when she was young

No doubt she found that true of me.

I cursed her headstrong, even as I loved her,

Would rather be blown to south and lee

By duty, duty, damnèd duty.

Years of waiting dashed by compassion:

Mockery. Jealousy. Patronizing,

To be invited to the wedding. Rash, in

Disappearing, disgraced, breaking

down. To say it not for her—

Then for him, and him—

Why would she not see?

The female animal is more deadly.

Let her believe I died in defense

of some greater good. Have I not

a heart, even if it's not hers, nor

mine?

My claim to her

is in all that's right and fitting.

Have I not toiled enough

for that?

III.

There are them that do without

women at all; their worlds

is not smirched with ill-favored

children, but gob, if they ain't

boring.

A man ought to live in mystery;

to live in himself is the greatest

mystery of all. How can I

rightly say what the day may bring,

when the wind that blows tomorrow

changes in direction, hardness,

faster than a sextant can tell?

Then, by definition, to give one's

heart is as ill-advised as burying

shiny things all in the sand

of one island. Above all, I

am sensible.

'Twas long the case with me,

that I could not consider friendship

with a woman 'til I had had her;

she having the opposite notion,

all being said and done. Flames to fingers,

moths to glass, poison to blood.

I am one, one only.

But in the French, the same word

means alone and lonely. Not by

accident.

Accidents being confined to a pretty

face to be forgotten—but won't be put down.

If in word she belongs to another man,

so much the better. The compass

doesn't lie, the compass never

lies. Neither do lips or eyes.

I have no claim on her,

except what she brings to bargain.