The Sacrifice
BY JOHN FREEMAN
The difference
between animals and us
the main one is
they don’t need to know
it’s a park. The coyote
lopes through
just the same
looking for food. We
stop, in mourning,
sensing everything
we’ve lost. We call
that ceremony
a park.
Unfinished
BY JOHN FREEMAN
She never saw it completed,
did not glimpse the many
varieties of tortoises
that lounged in a pond
near the north gate, never
peered into its vast fish pool,
never lowered her voice upon
stepping into the medal
room, her son’s decoration
shimmering in its ambition.
She, being a woman, had to
move in while the making was
still being made, 1625,
interiors sawdust and silk. Mornings padding
across cold marble floors past footmen
clicking heels together, the arc
of her life there for all to see
in twenty-four Rubenses—girlhood,
motherhood, widowhood.
How they resented her,
the French, but needed her
money. She would have to
commission her own story. She
just needed more time, but time
knows when it is being chased.
The cardinals and ministers did not
even hide the whetstone.
They would eat
her. Sailing to the Spanish
Netherlands, banished
to Belgium, did she know
she’d never see her beloved park again? Or did
it occur to her, finally, she could never
replace time with time? Even a third
of a century building was not enough
to return her childhood
for a moment. So she gave
the park to her son, the second
son, in the full throes
of his dukedom, an expert in
acquisition. He’d never
understand the only things
that matter are irreplaceable. Then the palace
began to tumble through the ages,
each exchange erasing what
it was meant to replace, developers
nibbling at its margins, Napoleon
ripping up her fountain, urban
planners stuffing its walks
with statuaries, a hundred
thousand kisses exchanged
in its shadows every
spring. Even the
Nazis in 1940 passed through
and the Luftwaffe said, this will do.
It’s sleeting today, winter, the park
glistens in its blanket of cold. By
noon the snow will be gone,
an easy embrace to refuse.
Somewhere You Are Sleeping
BY JOHN FREEMAN
and the lights are out, the lights of your eyes, the shine in your hair, fanned across the pillow, it breathes at night did you know this? The room is dark, and here in Paris the city wakes, fitful and furious, everyone clutching their private agonies on the metro. I am ordering coffee and a croissant and I hear you mimicking my accent, in gray morning light you are so beautiful waiters do not ask you to speak, they simply bring things to delight you, partly because they understand beauty here is not a projection, but a possession, I often wonder when you came into yours, there must have been a day you peered up at a mirror and there it was, resting inside you like a flame you would not need to protect, that is another thing they understand, how little one must do around it, beauty, we do not need to cup our hands, or explain it to itself, as if a woman is always confused, in need of explication, desperate for someone to tell them what it all means; the pink sun falling like a disk in the sky, the air blowing across our arms like breath, I want to be like a park for you, dear, like a place you go at lunch on days when you have time to sit by yourself and eat slowly and read in that lazy way that makes your face relax, and your eyes soften, when you are marvelous, unobserved, so much in your mind, your beauty is telling anyone around you all that is there and I am the park, around and below and next to you, holding my breath, listening.