In the House of Fado

“Sometimes I think that when I finally slough off these stagnant clothes, I may not stand as naked as I imagine and some intangible vestments may still clothe the eternal absence of my true soul.”

-Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

 

Eyes adjudging her,

mouths silent for it is about to be sung,

they call for lights down in longing,

double doors dead-bolted against uncaring.

 

Delving hurt, twelve strings murmur,

and she plunges far inside

her fragrant wardrobe of yearning,

body so like upthrust basalt

 

only her out-speaking hands

can lift the racked voice she tries on

then slowly slips off like a sequined cocktail dress

quietly ripped after dance turned to tears and shock.

 

Then he rises solitary from his small table

secreted in the landing’s murk,

bows to her twice,

rifles his own sorrowed bureau,

 

ice-seared words donned in dust-moted air,

draping them fluid-stiff over thin shoulders

like a white linen suit worn

only for a wrecked proposal,

 

like a fine vesture

become Pessoa’s old clothes,

so shaped to his woe,

so pained to abandon.