by Marilyn Hacker¹

    August First： it was a year ago

    we drove down from St.-Guilhem-le-Désert

    to open the house in St. Guiraud

    rented unseen.  I'd stay； you'd go； that's where

    our paths diverged².  I'd settle down to work，

    you'd start the next month of your Wanderjahr.

    I turned the iron key in the rusted³ lock

    （it came， like a detective-story clue，

    in a manila envelope， postmarked

    elsewhere， unmarked otherwise） while you

    stood behind me in the midday heat.

    Somnolent⁴ shudders⁵ marked our progress.  Two

    horses grazed on a roof across the street.

    You didn't believe me until you turned around.

    They were both old， one mottled gray， one white.

    Past the kitchen's russet dark， we found

    bookshelves on both sides of the fireplace：

    Verlaine， L'étranger， Notes from the Underground.

    Through an archway， a fresh-plastered staircase

    led steeply upward.  In a white room stood

    a white-clad brass⁶ bed. Sunlight in your face

    came from the tree-filled window.  "You did good."

    We laid crisp sheets we would inaugurate

    that night， rescued from the grenier a wood-

    en table we put under the window.  Date

    our homes from that one， to which you returned

    the last week of August， on a late

    bus， in shorts， like a crew-cut， sunburned

    bidasse.  Sunburned， in shorts， a new haircut，

    with Auden and a racing⁷ pulse I'd earned

    by "not being sentimental⁸ about

    you，"  I sprinted⁹ to "La Populaire."

    You walked into my arms when you got out.

    At a two minute bus stop， who would care？

    "La Populaire" puffed¹⁰ onward¹¹ to Millau

    while we hiked up to the hiatus where

    we'd left ourselves when you left St. Guiraud

    after an unambiguous decade

    of friendship， and some months of something new.

    A long week before either of us said

    a compromising word acknowledging

    what happened every night in the brass bed

    and every bird-heralded blue morning

    was something we could claim and keep and use；

    was， like the house， a place where we could bring

    our road-worn， weary selves.

    Now， we've a pause

    in a year we wouldn't have wagered¹² on.

    Dusk climbs the tiled roof opposite； the blue's

    still sun-soaked； it's a week now since you've gone

    to be a daughter in the capital.

    （I came north with you as far as Beaune.）

    I cook things you don't like.  Sometimes I fall

    asleep， book open， one A.M.， sometimes

    I long for you all night in Provencal

    or langue d'oc， or wish I could， when I'm

    too much awake.  My early walk， my late

    walk mark the day's measures like rhyme.

    （There's nothing I hate——perhaps I hate

    the adipose¹³ deposits on my thighs¹⁴

    ——as much as having to stay put and wait！）

    Although a day alone cuts tight or lies

    too limp sometimes， I know what I didn't know

    a year ago， that makes it the right size：

    owned certainty； perpetual surprise.

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