A Difficult Companion, 1819
(Mary kneeling face-down in the sand;
a small sealed box in grass by the beach)
I
There was a name
for a man who had
thrown away God,
the foul…,
no, I wouldn’t dare call it a word,
or would I say
I used it often on him,
no I wouldn’t turn to
such a woman of typical stirs.
His eyes helped me
to accept the strolls.
How he calmly held up
sly sisterly Clairae’s hand
to form the fist
made of his and hers,
the stare, or was it a glare,
one that spoke loudly
to an hour I heard
the two threads holding me upright snap.
Once as she grinned,
her eyes joining his
to inject the searing,
“Enjoy your ink! Sure Maie can’t come?”
And once as he left first,
heedless,
no courage to comfort,
overlooking my eye-wide plea,
“I want someone to be happy with.”
And as the door latched
I felt Pain enquire, “Why?”
II
Claire was one of her names.
& Claremont seemed the other–
I’ve always understood why Percy
insisted on her presence
in the carriage when dawn
led us from the London dirge,
and I stepped off at Calais
strongly in love,
as strong as dear sister,
with a man we knew to be married,
life-full, often in
the habit of sense and sensibility.
III
All that my journals tell
I planned to put to the pyre
my worry built,
to accommodate
a difficult companion,
that fierce she
now on the arm of Shelley,
out in the open, fearless,
by far the woman
my great mother
saw as Society’s meed.
For us, the prodigal step-sisters,
in tight with Incest and…
pardon my laughter,
I hound my independence,
a short remote hilarity.
