This is for Stephen. He provided the collage, which is titled: “Poe, tho often Depressed, could at times be a charming host. Was the visit real, or was he dreaming of Lenore because he could still feel her in her shawl?” The picture at the bottom is a Louis Hine black & white photograph, which Stephen manipulated to produce this haunting trio.
Incidentally, I had a lot of trouble writing this. I think these pictures are so soaked with meaning that it was difficult for me to focus on any one strain. Everything rushes to be included, but there are only so many words.
I sleep fitfully. She is gone. Her shawl lies heaped across the chair. I cannot move it. Her scent dreams quietly within the crumpled silk. I will not awaken it. It is a beast best left to slumber.
She visits me in dreams, gently plucking a lute my mother owned. The tune falls in and out, as if she were slowly retreating from and returning to me.
I know if I open my eyes and face her, she will pull back, dutiful as the tide, receding forever. My Eurydice. I am a failed Orpheus, without any song. It is her music that Hell weeps to, and Heaven strains to hear. Her footsteps that I wait for, softly falling behind me like dead autumn leaves.
Every night I turn to see her—a fool’s errand. She vanishes, folded back into the woven threads of silk draped on the chair.