Poem

We are Always Too Late

June 24, 2013

EAVAN BOLAND

We are Always Too Late

This is from the Irish poets collection OUTSIDE HISTORY, published in the UK by Carcanet.

Memory
Is in two parts.

First the re-visiting:

the way even now I can see
those lovers at the caf table. She is weeping.

It is New England, breakfast time, winter. Behind her,
outside the picture window, is
a stand of white pines.

New snow falls and the old,
losing its balance in the branches,
showers down,
adding fractions to it. Then

The re-enactment. Always that.
I am getting up, pushing away
coffee. Always I am going towards her.

The flush and scald is
to her forehead now, and back down to her neck.

I raise one hand. I am pointing to
those trees, I am showing her our need for these
beautiful upstagings of
what we suffer by
what survives. And she never even sees me.