Carole Satyamurti
Constanze Stays at Home*
When he’s away, I’m fogged by longing
like a child who only knows I want;
reasons, reasons why not, the empty
rattle of a nonsense language.
No song, no symphony, certainly no
outpouring of enamelled caskets
can weigh against these aching absences.
Water turns brackish in the water jug.
I forget to eat - I’m on the road with him,
tracing his journeys, the dangers,
the dazzling women - how can he not...?
My mind and body search and search.
I write to him, all cheerful, practical,
but oh, I’m pregnant with love and rage.
It’s worst at dusk, reliving then...and then;
hands closing on cobwebs.
*Constanze Weber was the wife of Mozart
Page(s) 46
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