Thomas Locicero’s most recent poem to appear here was “Black Hills” (June 2019).

The Death Song of Us
after T.S. Eliot
By Thomas Locicero

You and I, we shall retreat,
Though our night has been splayed out against defeat,
Like old prophets, we foresee the solemn writings.
We shall walk among the humblest of abodes,
The gathering of roads
That lead to the temptations of the soul
And lectures of the conscience on control.
Roads that dare not remind us of the sacred vows
That the holiest espouse,
Which merely serve as retelling of the truth . . .
Is this worth the uttering?
Does it not evoke stuttering?

It is your women you imitate,
Whose secret scorning seals our fate.

Contentiousness that taps off-key against the gutter drains,
The constant drip that taps the innards of the gutter drains,
Pursed its lips against the remnants of the night sky,
Loitered among the insides, leaving stains
Of colorless blood blackened like a hollow chimney,
Its mortar and its brick turned inside out
To reveal what our eyes already see:
The irretrievableness of our doubt.

And we see there is no time—
The contentiousness that ascends to misgive,
Dripping its death inside the gutter drains—
There is no time, there is no time
To have to give the love we no longer have to give,
Knowing true loved ones will not understand
The selfishness to yearn for life to live—
Not a life consisting of a command.
Time to be, but not as we

And time yet for a thousand disappointments,
And for all appointments. Oh, missed appointments!
Oh, how you have wrung out the soul of me!

It is your women you imitate,
Whose whispers further seal our fate.

We concede there is no time
To consider staying: “God, do I stay?”
Time to sojourn and wait out the gray,
Time to live in misery another day.
(God will say: “Where is the indiscretion?”)
What great travesty has been done worthy of confession?
Without a crack in the covenant, where is the unconfessed sin?
(God will say: “Show Me the indiscretion!”)
And will we
Finish our family
In a time where there is time
For appointments, disappointments, missed appointments: fantasy?

For someone who has known love, known how to be
Loved, knowing mornings, afternoons, and nights
Of love measured out by ascending heights
Reserved for loving love-makers younger than we,
The after-scent that fragranced our bedroom—
                It never shall resume.

And I have sensed the scent of lovers, loved them all—
A love transfixed on an anticipated maze;
With each anticipation, a hope to lose therein
Where nothing is found and no one will fall.
So why should we begin
To race to every obstacle for all our days?
                And why should we presume?

Yes, I have sensed the scents of lovers, loved them all—
Love that is unshackled, pure and impure.
Let come the evening, virgin, virgin-whore.
It is perfume to my scent
Like meat following Lent—
Love that lies upon the bed sheets, or wrapped in a towel.
                A love that will consume
                We’ll never know again.

Still, we stay, though our hearts embark on darkened streets
While lusting smoke that rises from the lust
Of other lovers like us bound as one by vows. . . . 

We should have been a pair of one-winged birds
Arching headlong into the open sea.