Vacant Possession Now that it's over there is just a
text Of which I am the book, in which the past Enjoys the only presence that it has.
I carry still upon my inner skin Annual incisions showing the boy's height, A fading patch upon one ventricle That once said 'Stephen's Room'. And out of sight A long-healed ulcer where the home-brewed beer Exploded in a cupboard. Bubbles of noise Exploded too at times within my veins: 'Turn down that radio! And close the door!'
From my top eye they watched the young yew grow They'd planted in the garden. In the quiet hours The bed springs sang, her startled cry arose From deep within me: Susan had been made. As Susan climbed the stairs hand over hand, And Stephen beat against my bones in rage, The story grew. For Susan's sake I let Them gouge out flesh and mortar, tear a hole, Insert a basin. flow I am lined and scarred!
Me lives up North now; she is selling me. The yew's still young; the story does not end With death or closure: 'Why do we have to leave?'
painted these walls yellow— it's my room!' Next week the strangers come.
Laurence Lerner
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