after a tale by Henry James

Miss Tina Bordereau has recently suggested to her lodger,
a literary editor, that she would give him the letters written
to her Aunt Juliana by the poet Jeffrey Aspern—if he married
her. Before bolting from her house, he stammered, “Ah Miss
Tina—ah Miss Tina … It wouldn’t do, it wouldn’t do!”

Tonight I spent a good while in the garden,
thinking about—well, sitting amongst the flowers
I love to see, and, when it grew too dark,
breathing in all the scents that blew, so cool
in the slight breeze, I pulled my favorite scarf
tighter around my throat. I wanted to stay
as I could possibly enjoy it.
I had too much to think of, as you know,
and yet could not resolve what appeared settled.
I have, now, what remains around me here
and what I have retrieved from her sewn mattress,
the papers and effects that you desired—
but not too dearly. Still, I have earned much,
my keep alone, this garden and this house,
in gold she counted, one coin, drop, one coin,
drop in the glossy box. And the key’s mine.
I’ve come into the kitchen, for it’s been
my room, just as the parlor has been hers,
although it’s larger here, and the high ceiling
takes what the firelight throws and muddies it
with shadows, or the shadowings of light,
a fluttering I always think is like
what water throws, reflected off canals.
And now, the papers. Bundled. Tied with ribbon.
And what’s this? Fur? No, finer. Hair. But not
what I’d expect, a lock of brownish curls.
No, more a mess, a pitiful remembrance.
The fire is small, but surely it will do.
And he can help it grow, a bit of kindling
from hair as legendary as her eyes,
but not as frightening. Let me unfold
the first of these. Thin. Carefully creased. Aqua.

   My dear Miss Juliana Bordereau—

         Let us be sisters—though I am a man—
   more intimate than lovers and more pure,
   sharing our secrets here, more guessed at than
   believed or known. Let gossip be our cure
   when we fall ill with wistfulness of love.
   For love shall pluck our tunes, and swell our breeze
   when the sweet evening seasons with its clove
   and whispers are the ripples of great seas.

         We’ll both wear pantaloons, doff parasols
   and stroll upon the Riva. Are you shocked
   that we may waltz our way through the masked balls
   with nothing from our open faces blocked?

         Humor me, now, with sisterly affection,
   pleased how long-standing is this fresh connection.

         —Your most attentive servant, Jeffrey Aspern