229 292
Poems
229
FIANCÉ
The reckless, scraped days
flicker a moment, then are condemned.
He must be better now,
as Matthew converted
took the crumbs and found joy—
or joy was forced upon him. He must
spend his mornings seeking
gold for her, abashed
by his early wanderings,
his imperfections and alliances.
There had been a Maria, an Ayşenür
who stood within the shadows
of her father with a violin.
There had been wine, song,
the blood of a dancing crowd.
There had been deep romance
he thought would never end, beds
of daffodils in April, and April always.
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