Page 29 of Poetry By Dead Men
It takes every ounce of self-control I have to hold back the tears rising up my throat at his concern. It’s comforting, and Ihateit. That my marriage might be falling apart before it’s even started, andhe’sthe one trying to take care of me. “I swear it,” I say, and even I’m impressed at how convincing I sound.
There’s a heavy, tense sigh, and I picture Bobby taking off his ball cap and nervously flipping it backward. “Fine. I'll pick you up tomorrow morning. We're leaving a couple days earlier than expected."
My heart is thundering, but I keep my voice steady as I reply. "I'll take a cab. Text me the address."
There’s a long silence, and I wonder what Bobby’s thinking. "Tomorrow," he says, and before the concern I feel from him through the phone can make me cry, I hang up.
I place my head in my hands, forcing myself to take deep breaths.
What have I done?
THEN
February 2017
I’m not the man I was a week ago
My head down, numb in the hustle
My days lost among the bustle
—An excerpt from "Dreamers and Poets" written and performed by Robert Beckett
“Read this one,” I tell Bobby, thrusting my open book at him.
“Anotherpoem?” he groans, but I don’t miss his crooked smile as he shifts in what I now considerhisseat at Joe’s Place. I know he loves reading poetry as we sip our coffee. Sometimes, he even asks for my book so he can read it out loud to me.
“Yes. It's my favorite. I can't believe I haven't shown it to you before.”
“Well, if it's your favorite, hand it over." His cheek dimples as he holds out his hand and clears his throat dramatically. "It was many and many a year ago,in a kingdom by the sea,that a maiden there lived whom you may knowby the name of Annabel Lee.And this maiden she lived with no other thoughtthan to love and be loved by me.” Bobby narrows his eyes. “So sweet… Not your usual jam.”
“Keep going,” I swat at him, and he holds up a hand in surrender, continuing on. His tenor is perfect for this poem, and I imagine EdgarAllen Poe sitting in Charleston, overlooking Annabel Lee's buttercup yellow home and missing her so desperately he wrote these words.
“That the wind came out of the cloud by night,chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.” He pauses for a moment, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “There it is. Jeez, this poem is depressing,” Bobby tries to close the book, but I stop him. He’s not wrong about my tastes. I do enjoy poetry layered with grief and sorrow. It somehow makes the love feel bigger—eternal.
"Please keep reading." I roll my eyes. He does, and as he reaches the final lines, chills break out along my arms.
“In her sepulchre there by the sea. In her tomb by the sounding sea.”
I’m quiet for a moment as I let the immensity of the emotions of the poem sink in. Bobby leans forward, slowly, his eyebrows lowered as he rubs the back of his neck. He takes a deep breath, and I smile at the way the beauty of Poe’s words seem to be affecting him.
He meets my eyes. "No really, Beth. Are you okay? That is a very, very sad poem."
“What? Are youkiddingme? It's the greatest love poem of all time!" I say, ripping the book from his hands. "Their love is so great, not even the angels can keep them apart. It's beautiful."
“It'stragic," he says. "To love someone so much you'd rather die than live without them? It's so… vulnerable."
I gasp. It's dramatic. I know that, but I can't help it. "It'sbeautiful," I repeat. "I want a love like that."
Bobby studies me for a moment, but I can't tell what he’s thinking. I know what Ihopehe’s thinking. Maybe this is it.
Maybe he's thinking about me.
About what loving me would be like.
My stomach sinks as, instead of professing his love for me, he picks up his notebook and begins to write on a new page. "If that's what you want, I'm sure you'll find it," he finally says.
To my disappointment, he doesn't add "with me" to the end of his sentence, and even though it’s unfair, it makes me angry.
