Tuesday, May 17
A LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER CONSIDERS LOVE
She came neither by
schooner nor skiff,
neither by sea nor
brackish channel,
neither by south
nor east, nor west,
and if she came by
north, I saw nothing
of her arrival, standing
as I do with the ice
sheet at my back.
She said neither please
nor thank you,
had neither
suitcase nor hat.
When I gave her
the choice
of spare bedrooms,
she took neither
yellow nor red.
She was neither tired
nor wakeful, spoke
neither kind words
nor cruel. When I set her
a place at my table,
she took neither chair
nor stool. She was neither
pale- nor dark-haired,
neither fat nor thin.
Evenings, I ran her a bath.
She neither got out
nor stayed in.
She could neither dive
to an oyster bed,
nor sail to town
for new oil, nor pull
hard on a fishing line,
nor tell humpback
from right whale.
She was neither
a wit nor a reader,
she could neither
weed nor sow.
When she sat
in the garden
while I pulled
one potato
after another
from a rocky furrow,
she sang
neither fast
nor slow. (Gabriella Fee)