Tristan’s Wife Thinks of Isolde: poetry

By Margaret Lloyd

 

What was it that descended

upon him in our marriage bed

while he held me in his arms

so that he suddenly remembered you?

He cried uncontrollably with remorse

and then he would do no more

than hug and kiss me.

I have no illusions now.

He is like wood that won’t burn.

Have you seen the flames

licking with desperation,

the wood blackening on the outside,

the core untouched and cold?

It doesn’t move.

It doesn’t fall to ash.

But I am condemned

to admiration of such faithfulness.

Condemned

to admire rejection

of myself.

See what a riddle we have spun.

I have no hope

if I do not want him to change.

Forever you are the sound,

I am the echo.

(Originally appeared in Dogwood 2002)

One thought on “Tristan’s Wife Thinks of Isolde: poetry

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s