Aubade

Aubade

In the grayscale dawn at that hour that
Has given us the aubade
The lovers lay on their backs talking
In the bed her maid will make later
While she sits at her desk sobbing
Their tongues touching their white teeth
Naturally one of them has to leave
Naturally it is he who has to
Since it isn’t his bed and can never be
This in a time before time
Was given hands by which to tell us
What it is
Nothing can stop the sun from rising
He has told himself he will leave
When the first beam plunges through the gap
Between the heavy curtains
That pool in luscious folds on the floor
Covered in rich rugs bare feet sink into
As if one is walking on moss
It will be hard to extricate himself
From her thin moon-colored arms
Until then he will lie
Here beside her the only lying he has done
He who has tried to be true to this one
On the chair where she sits
To brush her long golden hair
(the gold-backed brush is full of it
like a boy who claims to have seen a fairy)
Are folded his beautiful clothes the green
Of the first leaves of spring
They’re delicious to wear
He is of the court of the king
Who drove her father the righteous brother
Into exile and who he’s been ordered to murder
Long in its scabbard his sword sleeps
In the wefts of its gilded handle
Can be seen the blood of men he’s killed
Kissing their astonished eyes shut
As he twisted the blade deeper
So as to get the painful part over faster
Suddenly the sunbeam he told himself
He’d leave upon seeing appears
So substantial he thinks he could hang
His clothes over it
But instead he puts them on
Turning away from her while he dresses
A habit from having so many sisters
Then bends down to kiss her eyes closed
As if he could encourage her to sleep
Then climbs down the vines that grow
From the ground up to her window
Where she stands long after
He leaves thinking of his hands in her hair
Deep in the forest darker
Than the green of his clothes
Her father’s men surround him
Having learned of what the king has asked him to do
He doesn’t bother telling them
He isn’t going to do it
Knowing they won’t believe him
He pulls out his sword not to defend himself
But so no one can question his honor
And draws a little blood
Lightly as if in pencil
The day after she’ll walk through the forest
Followed at a distance by her maid
Until she comes to the place
His blood has been calling her towards
To lie down on the ground where he died
The only lying she has done
To talk to him of the child
She felt inside her the moment
She stood at the window
And he breathed her name