The Psalm of the Mistress Proof

Todd describes this short sto­ry as a response to T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.  It is writ­ten in the voice of J. Alfred’s wife com­pos­ing a response to his ‘lovesong’ to be deliv­ered to J. Alfred at the insane asy­lum where he has long lan­guished in the agony of his inter­nal demons.” [Editor]

Where did you go, and what did you become when the mid­night ate the son like ink from a bro­ken foun­tain blots out the con­clu­sion of a son­net los­ing the prose of lost love’s last line?

We had time, so much.

Time to dance upon the shells of oyster’s seething divers, strew­ing saw­dust through tonight’s crevass­es, caress­es rife in cheap per­fume, per­for­mance in bloom of love’s intrin­sic tug-of-war … and more.

We had time, and where did you go, J. Alfred?

Did that yel­low smoke, so snug­gly wrapped ‘round comfort’s con­science con­sume you?

Did I pre­sume, too? That more than mist exist before the scratch­ing nag­ging claw of tomorrow’s uncer­tain­ty tan­gled you in night­mares of reced­ing hair, and if I did, did I not go there too? The two of us, me beside you, becom­ing not so fair?

I sat, bleak as the night­mare of a cat in a baby car­riage whilst your pen pro­nounced hell in destiny’s inse­cu­ri­ty. My bones aging and degrad­ing, a mir­ror of your quill’s remorse over the lie that hap­pi­ness played, betrayed with­in in your eye,

The lie of hap­pi­ness from you to me was real, and in its real­iza­tion left me no space for appeal.

Where did you go, when they went to and fro, whilst I talked of chapels in Rome with paint­ed domes of divine per­cep­tion and angels’ inter­ces­sion on behalf of man? Where you then weav­ing brim­stone beneath your brow, won­der­ing how we could endure under time’s weight­ed yoke, mock­ing you, mak­ing you a joke?

Was it the wet mud­slide of uneasy shame stick­ing to your suit of blame? Was it the lost chances over bro­ken glances in the bot­toms of glass­es of beer that wrote the twin­ing streets of your despair atop the wild­flower coun­try­side that went before, when you and I were more; that dream we grew togeth­er that drew away the smoke and shocked with light­ning-strike life back into the dying night,

The dying light grey, against the now breath­ing sky.

Where did you go, J. Alfred, when the ladies went to and fro, for I was there beside you, unhid­den, unhid­ing, unbid­den, and thought that you were with me too; exam­in­ing struts and struc­tures and nar­row boats between nar­row­er roads in Italy, obliv­i­ous to the depar­ture of your heart?  Why did it start, the unweav­ing of our unwind­ing, that the ladies in their bind­ings drew your eye to our abandonment?

And when, J. Alfred, when did you leave on this jour­ney to cleave hell out of heaven.

For we had time, didn’t we?

So much time?

When did the dream I had roll over, sub­mis­sive, and acqui­esce to the night­mare you made mine?

The one in which the crooked old man beat you bloody and list­less with the hands of an ungrate­ful clock, stolen from you by death’s impend­ing approach. It’s relent­less grasp assault­ing your youth with caus­tic cri­tique of life’s wast­ed moments. Moments wast­ing moments in the per­pe­tu­ity of regret over themselves.

When did you go, J. Alfred?

And where?

And can I come to?

Was that the ques­tion referred to, but unasked there­fore, unanswered?

Because those dead-dark-cold-cadav­er-sul­fur-smok­ing streets have become mine too.

And give me proof.

That I might arrive on time.