the truth of
it was
that I believe
she was
what she said she was
hard as it is to believe
completely
in anything especially
in what most of us
project to others
about our public
selves
knowing what I am
what most of us are
knowing what I accept
without shame
but keep for myself
or share when I can
with my best and
truest lover
fortunate to be
loved in my
daily facts
in my realities
rather than
in my awkward
transcendent
imaginings
a surprising present
tense . . . I had not
expected
But she was
or she became
someone of quite
another order
and, I think
what she said
was true
that she loved him
or the part of him
that was herself
encrusted thus
frozen and perfected
by her . . .
yes by her misunderstanding
her simplification
her keeping what was
pleasant and heroic
and discarding the rest
but yes also by
her faith
and her ability
to see deeply
through everything
and past everything
to
what was innocent
and pure and
beautiful
to those things
he could only
pretend
but could not
see
or be
even when
he was
and
she was
And so I
her son
believed her
when she said
she never
stopped loving him
and was faithful
I felt sorry for her
that she had
so created
a perfect personal world
arranged
to be so lovely
and worthy
by herself
and had not
even secretly
messily
wonderfully
ever
fallen in love
again