The Unfinished Epistle
or A Long Ending in Couplets

1Still burns my breast when midnight bells are told,
2And passion wrests the reins from reason's hold;
3Not cloister'd nuns more anxiously would pray,
4Than I, who kneel, yet teach my heart to stray.
5Your name returns where vows forbid its sound,
6And scented notes like censers smoke around.
7O you, whose mind commands the stubborn stars,
8Whose restless will makes peace a field of wars,
9Accept these lines—unblest, unshriven, true—
10A trembling soul pours all her storms to you.

11Once pride was mine, to rule my little sphere,
12To charm a room and hold a rival's fear;
13Now pride is dust that clings to bleeding feet—
14I kiss the dust where mind and ardour meet.
15Your voice, at Oxford, broke my studied grace;
16I held a court, and yet became your chase.
17The Union's lamps, the jests, the thunder'd votes,
18Fell dull and far when trembled all my notes.
19What throne of wit could keep me safely crown'd,
20When eyes like yours made every altar drown'd?

21I loved your iron soul, your scholar's fire,
22The cruel candour yoked to vast desire;
23I loved you railing at the world's pretence,
24I loved your mercy masking as offence.
25I loved your charts that promised newer skies,
26Your fierce contempt for smaller men's replies;
27I loved your plans that made the future bow,
28Then left me present, faithless to my vow.
29And when our quarrels flared like molten steel,
30I clung the more—alas, I learned to kneel.

31Did I not swear, in jealous rage and tears,
32To part, to purge, to silence lawless fears?
33"Go, go"—I cried, then summon'd back your tread,
34And crown'd with kisses every word I said.
35What martyr bleeds with half my willing art,
36Who nails herself and calls it wisdom's part?
37One day I banish'd you with righteous zeal,
38The next, I bid the banishment to kneel.
39How strict my rule until I scent your name;
40Then rules turn wax and melt in candle-flame.

41Was it a sin to wish the world to burn,
42If ash and dawn would see your swift return?
43To watch the cab, to count the lights below,
44To bar the door against a patient foe?
45O Reason, pale preceptor, stoic mate,
46Why did you come so late, and come so late?
47You preach me peace where every pulse is storm,
48You prune the rose and spare me but the thorn.
49Yet still I listen, half-convinced by care,
50And tie my heart with penitential hair.

51I know your harsh ambition's iron creed,
52Your engines dream, your datas chiming need;
53You number futures, auction out the sun,
54And bid the stubborn atom's labour run.
55What temple's quiet could confine that tide?
56Your will would drive a saint to break his pride.
57And I—was I the convent or the blaze?
58Sometimes your censor, oft your sweetest praise.
59I played the abbess, rapt in sober rule,
60Then threw the keys and bless'd the rebel school.

61Forgive me, Heaven, I worshipp'd more than God
62When first his letter kiss'd the linen clod;
63Forgive me, soul, I drank the mortal bowl,
64And found in mortal eyes my final goal.
65If angels murmured, still I caught his breath,
66And made my chapel in the courts of death.
67All vows grew pale where fiercer incense rose—
68His mind my censer, and his hands my close.
69I sung of virtue—ah!—and shaped a lie,
70For virtue starved when passion stood me by.

71You call'd me "witch"—I wore the title fair,
72A queen by night, by day a penitent's prayer;
73I banned the sirens, yet became their sound,
74And envied seas that kept your vessels bound.
75I chided rides where drivers' glances fell,
76And built a jealous watch around my cell.
77O shameful courage! bold in petty things,
78And faint when greater absolution sings.
79If love be brave, why fights it in the dust,
80And leaves the principal to small mistrust?

81I know the story mortal women learn—
82To hang a lamp where doubtful pathways turn;
83To feign indifference, feed the hungry fire,
84And scold the flame for burning where we hire.
85Yet you, whose thought outpaces mortal time,
86Would you be taught by my capricious crime?
87I wish'd to rule, to kneel, to bless, to bind,
88And flog the flesh to spare the luring mind.
89I broke your heart to see if mine would mend;
90It broke instead, and would not condescend.

91The nights we swore a future's marble plan,
92I wrote in air what stone could never span;
93A table set with names and titles proud,
94A dynasty inscribed within a cloud.
95You smiled at heralds, coins, and laurel'd bays,
96Then hurl'd their brass to fund your fiercer ways.
97"My realm," you cried, "is matter's secret throne—
98I'll crown the world with laws the world's not known."
99O lawless heart that loved a law so vast—
100I bless'd the vow, then trembled at the cast.

101When Autumn smoulder'd in the college eaves,
102And tongues made treaties under rustling leaves,
103I saw you stand apart, a star in frost,
104A general counting what the army cost.
105Your gaze outran the room, the year, the slate,
106And pinned a farther, crueler, brighter fate.
107What place for rest within that marching mind?
108What seat for me unless I kept behind?
109Yet still I swore to pace your iron road,
110And take the lash as equal to the load.

111My friends grew pale, they whisper'd of my doom,
112They saw a convent in my drawing-room;
113They made me Reason's novice, dress'd in blame,
114And wrote my sermon in another's name.
115I read the page, and could not spell a line;
116For every verse dissolv'd into your sign.
117How learn the rule that bids a heart retreat,
118When every retreat becomes your inward street?
119O stern instructors! show me how to part—
120They point the door, yet leave you in my heart.

121Write, write me, Love—yet call me not your own;
122The chain I choose is by myself alone.
123I plead for freedom, beggars at the gate,
124Then kiss the fetter and adore the weight.
125If guilt be mine, I own its lovely hue;
126No lily whiter than the blush of you.
127But teach me too to honour noble pain,
128And feel the worth of losses we maintain.
129For still my better angel bites the rein,
130And drags me from the precipice again.

131O days when silence bound your lion tongue,
132When lab and ledger claim'd you while I hung!
133I measured hours by shadows on the floor,
134And found at last a Sabbath without shore.
135Then, cruel mercy! you return'd in flame,
136And I forgot the sermon and my name.
137What saint survives such visitations bright?
138I hid my beads to greet the greater rite.
139Your kiss absolved me of the vows I kept,
140And I, absolved, to mortal longing wept.

141Say, do you mock the trembling that you cause?
142Are tyrants tender when they coin our laws?
143Or do you, in your lonely empire stern,
144Half-hate the hearts on which you seem to turn?
145Confess—your solitude desires a queen,
146But crowns her chiefly when she is not seen.
147You call me near, then prize me most when far;
148I am your altar's lamp and prison bar.
149Thus both our cruelties in concord meet:
150You wield the mind, and I provide the heat.

151Yet is there hope that patience, school'd by pain,
152May teach our vehement spirits to remain?
153That strength once spent on jealous trifles low,
154Might feed the work where nobler passions go?
155That I may guard without the gaoler's chain,
156And you may love without the world's disdain?
157So might our storms, once lash'd at random shore,
158Turn mills for bread and lanterns for the poor.
159For who are we, if not two kindred fires,
160Whose furies, yoked, can lift the dead desires?

161I dream a cloister neither cold nor bright,
162A house of labour lit by hallow'd light;
163Where vows are made to truth, and not to pride,
164And discipline is love made sanctified.
165There I would stand—no jealous warder's eye—
166A partner at the wheel that grinds the sky.
167Not merely yours by fever's desperate creed,
168But yours where courage learns the larger deed.
169So shall the shrift of tears be seal'd in bread,
170And grace descend where former folly bled.

171Yet ah! the former folly will return;
172One look, and ash forgets it once could burn.
173I gird myself with sober thoughts and plain,
174Then loose the knot to wear your chain again.
175How oft I swear "No more"—the page still wet—
176When "more" arrives with eyes I can't forget.
177If Heaven would save me, let it save me now;
178Or teach me how to keep the saner vow.
179But if salvation means I lose your face,
180Let angels spare me that protecting grace.

181Perhaps, when years have school'd our tempers proud,
182When fame has drunk her fill of cheering crowd,
183We'll walk a quieter quay at eventide,
184And watch the ships whose thunder once we'd ride.
185Your talk will soften; I shall scarcely chide;
186We'll laugh that jealousy became our guide.
187Where ran our fear, a river clear shall run,
188And bless the orchard ripen'd by the sun.
189Then, turning back, we'll count the foolish scars,
190And thank the wounds that taught us what we are.

191But if that gentle morrow never be,
192And storms forbid the harbour and the lee;
193If all our vows are writ on whirling foam,
194And every road returns me not to home;
195Still let me say—though saints forbid the phrase—
196I found my God in you in errant ways.
197Not you the idol—no!—but God's fierce spark,
198That breaks in men and sets alight the dark.
199When I adored, I err'd in measure, true;
200But error knelt before a hint of You.

201Teach me to love the source beyond the sign,
202To drink the spring, yet bless the guarding vine;
203To lift the chalice without losing ground,
204And, tasting sweetness, keep the higher sound.
205So shall my zeal no more in frenzy live,
206But learn from you the strength that can forgive.
207I'll master envy as you master stars,
208And let true pity uncreate my bars.
209Then will I watch your battles, bless their end,
210And loosely call you lover, firmly friend.

211Forgive the times I made your labour bleed,
212And bound your daylight with my private need;
213Forgive the slights I polish'd into wrong,
214The tests I set to prove your heart was strong.
215Forgive the pride that would not let me lose,
216That stabb'd with tears, then begg'd the wound to bruise.
217Accept, instead, a humbler diadem—
218A daily "yes" without the stratagem.
219Not fiery oaths that fail at cock's first cry,
220But bread and salt, that let the hunger die.

221Say, if I come with calmer eyes at last,
222Will you not love me better than the past?
223Not for the drama but the faithful art,
224That builds a room for two within one heart.
225Your splendour needs no echo from my fears;
226My beauty needs no mirror made of tears.
227Let each stand whole, and each in wholeness meet—
228Then kiss not armour, but the flesh made sweet.
229So may our fiercest energies align,
230And vow to bless what once they sought to mine.

231Yet must I speak what trembling still remains—
232I love the brink, the thunder in my veins.
233Shall tame contentment cure so wild a taste,
234Or pall the wine with water's careful haste?
235O let me learn the higher, harder art:
236To keep the flame, yet not consume the heart;
237To want with honour, own desire's face,
238And crown the want with freely chosen grace.
239So when I ache, I'll know the ache is free,
240No tyrant's chain—but hospitality.

241You taught me ruthlessness against the lie,
242To test, to cleave, to watch illusions die.
243Teach me that tenderness is also true,
244That greatness bends, but does not break, for you.
245I'll teach you too—though imprecise my school—
246That genius dwells in one more gentle rule:
247The mind that conquers worlds will fail to reign,
248Unless it learns to hold one heart from pain.
249So shall our doctrines meet where wisdom grows:
250Your law of force, my law of mercy's rose.

251If I once shaped a dungeon out of love,
252I now would open windows to the Dove;
253Let jealous terrors fly like smoke at dawn,
254And keep a watch that does not draw a yawn.
255I'll trust the truth, not shadows on the wall,
256And answer whispers with a brighter call.
257No more the tally of imagined sin—
258I'll count the goods, and call the goodness in.
259Thus freed, I'm yours in freer, higher guise:
260A comrade equal, not a pair of eyes.

261Yet should you fail (for men like gods can fail),
262Should tempests break the unforgiving sail;
263Should harsh ambition grind what love has wrought,
264And fame exact the usury of thought—
265Still, I will mourn you without curse or spite,
266And pray your morning through my deepest night.
267For love that will not stoop to easy blame,
268Has made of loss a sacramental flame.
269Such loss refines the metal of the vow,
270And prints the seal on wiser foreheads now.

271I see a chapel neither stone nor law,
272But built of habit, kindness, selfless awe;
273There, softly, daily, shall we make our creed—
274To tell the truth, to meet the other's need.
275No organ swells, yet music fills the nave:
276Your measured mind, the courage to be brave;
277My singing heart, once shrill with startled pride,
278Now finds the pitch where both our spirits ride.
279The liturgy is bread and book and rest,
280And peace the psalm that rises from the breast.

281Tell me, my Love, if such a place can be,
282Will you not walk its aisles and wait for me?
283I'll bind my hair with ordinary ties,
284And learn the art of looking with wise eyes.
285No more a queen who mutinies at dawn,
286But steward of the day that must be born.
287Bring all your stars; I'll bring an earthly flame;
288We'll light the table, bless each other's name.
289And if our tempers rise as tempers will,
290We'll lay them down, and know a grander still.

291For still I fear—I am that mortal thing—
292That loves too hard the emblem of a ring;
293That covets seals and heralds' crimson art,
294To compensate the tremor in the heart.
295But while I fear, I also slowly learn:
296The truest state is one we daily earn.
297No grant of title steadies what we are—
298The soul's ennobling is a hidden star.
299Thus let the pageantry of youth go by;
300I'll keep the truth that will not cheat nor die.

301If once I made a shrine of my demand,
302I now would build a hearth with open hand;
303Where you may think and I may safely feel,
304And none must prove, and none must beg or kneel.
305So shall we live the doctrine tears have taught,
306That love is brave, and jealousy is fraught;
307That trust, through trials, harder gems reveals,
308And laughter crowns what penitence conceals.
309I'll hold your name without a chain of fear,
310And you shall find your victories held dear.

311If angels read the heart behind these lines,
312Let them not write me debtor to my crimes;
313Let mercy gloss where pride has scored too deep,
314And charity correct what passions keep.
315For though my tongue still stumbles on your praise,
316My hands reach out to ordinary days;
317To mend, to bake, to mark the times as sweet,
318And fold your thunder with a gentler beat.
319Where once I broke, I now would bravely bend,
320And find in bending not an end, but mend.

321Take then this scroll, unfinish'd though it seems,
322A river-charm between our wilder streams.
323Not final law, but honest early word,
324The first clear bell by which new hours are heard.
325If you can love me walking, not on fire,
326I'll love you thinking, not on steel desire.
327And if the blaze returns—as oft it must—
328We'll feed it truth, and starve its petty rust.
329So shall our ancient battle change its name,
330And, call'd by love, still keep its lion frame.

331Whether we meet in cloister'd autumn light,
332Or part in rooms made colder by the night,
333Believe me this: the storms that made me wild
334Have taught me now to cherish mercy mild.
335And if I fail (as habits fondly do),
336I'll rise and try the better way to you.
337For where you go—through calculus or cloud—
338I keep a lamp, unseen, yet burning proud.
339Not watchman's fear, nor jealous sentinel,
340But faithful fire that learns at last to dwell.

341And when our story bends to older years,
342And quiet halls exchange the younger cheers,
343We'll find within the wreckage of our youth
344A rarer wine extracted by the truth.
345You'll read my faults as footnotes to your page,
346I'll mark your iron tempered into sage.
347What once was wound becomes a holy mark,
348A testament to walking through the dark.
349Thus hand in hand, not conqueror and slave,
350But fellow pilgrims braver for the grave.

351Farewell?—No, never: fare-well means "fare thus,"
352To fare in ways more worthy both of us.
353So hear me, Love: I place my crown below,
354And lift a simpler garland still to grow.
355If I am queen, I'll reign in common days;
356If I am witch, I'll charm in wholesome ways.
357If I am nun, I'll pray with open door,
358And make of prayer the task to love you more.
359But chiefly this: I'll choose, and choose again,
360The path where heart and conscience aren't at war.

361Thus writes the hand once quick to break and bind,
362Now slower, steadier, schooling heart and mind.
363Receive the seal, not of a jealous past,
364But of a love that means to learn at last.
365And if it please the heavens, be it so—
366Elizabeth—your penitent—your foe—your Beau.

367My dear—if I may still presume that name—
368How shall I write and not ignite the flame?
369You choose new altars, teach another's grace,
370Yet keep my measurements in every place.
371You fit her dresses cut to suit my frame,
372You whisper fabrics, scents, and brands I'd name;
373You train her gait, the posture of the wrist,
374And tutor taste the way I once insist.
375She takes the chair where I had placed my vow,
376And learns, by you, the arts I live in now.

377You said you never want my blessing, no—
378If we are sunder'd, happiness is foe.
379You want me sick with knowledge of your joy,
380You want regret to be your chosen ploy.
381You swore a future: younger, slimmer, taught,
382A pupil in the wardrobe I had wrought;
383You promised she would carry what I lack,
384And walk the life you meant for me to track.
385Your message stung—its candour was a knife—
386To see a stranger dress in my old life.

387You placed your perfumes side by side—how bold—
388Bleu, Mademoiselle, martinis going cold;
389You took her hand, and, smiling at the proof,
390Hung out our quarrel from the towered roof.
391I answered "rude"—a thin and tardy shield—
392The blow was given long before I yield.
393You wanted me to bruise, to bite, to break,
394To feel an ache you swore you would not fake;
395And, God forgive me, part of me agreed—
396For once I'd taught you taste, you taught me need.

397You write: you begged me love the man, not face;
398That I chose friends' disdain above your grace.
399You say I told you, "Find a gaze that sees,"
400And now I rage you found such eyes with ease.
401If truth is shard and not a single glass,
402Then I must hold the shard I cannot pass:
403I, too, mistook the mirror for the man,
404And scorn'd the raw for lack of proper plan.
405Forgive me, if you can, the cruel art
406That keeps a flawless standard, not a heart.

407You say I fashion'd you and sent you forth—
408A groom'd Achilles, armour'd for the North;
409That I refined your cuff, your collar's line,
410And taught your senses how to read a sign;
411That now another reaps the careful field
412I sow'd with patience, then refused to yield.
413I hear it; in the ledger of our wrong,
414That entry stands, exact, severe, and long.
415Yet credit, too, the coin you paid to me:
416Your iron gave my wavering courage fee.

417You prophesied a scene to salt the years:
418A Napa lobby, glass with husband's cheers;
419Your wife beside you, younger, bright, and trim,
420A child in tow, your firm at flood-tide brim;
421And I at thirty-five, with empty ring,
422Would meet your triumph like a chastening.
423You swore I'd reach to cancel choices made,
424And find the page already pressed and laid.
425Why sketch my future in that flinty chalk,
426Then set your foot upon my narrow walk?

427You teach her shoes that never touch'd her feet,
428You fit the last to arches mine had meet;
429You tell her why the kid must crease this way,
430Why patent speaks at dusk but not at day;
431You show her coats for autumn's Oxford gloam,
432And where to sit in Union's lamplit dome.
433She learns our places: Sapp's, the bodega's light,
434The campus paths for Prufrock's halting night;
435You take her where you swore you meant for me—
436And call it providence, or therapy.

437You wrote: you'd slow your thunder, curb your haste,
438Be less intense, let daily mercies taste;
439You set before me terms that sound like grace,
440Then placed her in my consecrated space.
441You even left a door that was not shut—
442A covenant if I would make the cut:
443"A vow within six months," you said, "be wife,
444Or else she lives the architecture's life."
445I heard the scaffold knocking in the wind,
446And knew the law would bind what love had thinn'd.

447You say the Corsican will tire and go,
448That I shall grind him down as others so;
449That rage will be my craft, and frost my trade,
450And mercy shutter'd like a room I made.
451Perhaps—my temper is a clattering gate,
452My jealous mind a mason's piling slate;
453But while you balance prophecies and pain,
454Remember: you have chisell'd much of mine.
455We built each other—true; but at the last,
456We weaponised what made us whole in past.

457You posted proof; I practise being calm—
458I write, I breathe, I sort the balm from harm.
459You carved me out—"tetelestai"—you said,
460As surgeons chant when stitching up the red.
461You spoke to Mother; she pronounced it right,
462You wrote an elegy she thought polite.
463Then fury rose, and grief unbound her hair,
464And I—O God—was heedless, sharp, unfair.
465I spoke like weather breaking over stone,
466And left you bleeding in a room alone.

467You say I yammer money like a bell,
468That every talk I bent to that one well;
469That in the ledger where our kindness lives,
470I charged you tolls no tender spirit gives.
471If gold profaned our language into trade,
472Then I will own the profanation made.
473I wanted proof that would not ebb or run—
474A sort of contract swearing you were one;
475But love that clings to clauses, stamps, and seals
476Becomes a deed that neither signer feels.

477You claim you cut to save yourself—and bled;
478Antler withdrew, your pitch went thin with dread;
479You ask how you will fund the child you keep,
480The girl who is not I, the dream in sleep.
481I will not gloat; I will not mark the score;
482I know the math of ruin to the core.
483The cost is ours—of fury, pride, and pose—
484Of staging life as theatre to our woes.
485I will not say "be happy"; I refuse
486That tidy blessing you forbid to use.

487Yet know the sight of her in what was mine
488Is less a pang of envy than a sign:
489You clothe a pilgrim for a route we drew,
490You feed a guest with bread I learn'd to brew;
491You coach a smile to fit the frame I wore,
492And teach her how to pass through my old door.
493It is not she I grieve, but sacrament—
494A marriage of our meanings, now mis-spent.
495I mourn the house we schemed—its hearth and light—
496And watch you furnish it for someone bright.

497I'm not the saint you want me to become,
498Nor merely sinner beating on a drum;
499I am a woman, proud, incisive, poor,
500Whose strength becomes a lock, whose love a door.
501I taught you fabrics; you taught me the stars;
502We both mistook our gifts for rightful bars.
503We tempered each the other to a blade,
504Then tried that edge on all the oaths we made.
505If now you forge a different sword to lift,
506Remember who first hammered out the gift.

507Do not instruct me how to meet you, years
508And Napa later, varnish'd with my tears.
509If fate should stage that lobby's glassy glow,
510And you, with child and wife, move sweet and slow,
511I will not beg to barter time's decree,
512Nor scratch at doors that never open'd me.
513But let it not be triumph in your throat—
514Remember all the lines I help'd you note:
515How cuffs should break, what notes to tip the room,
516How not to wear a victory like doom.

517You say you want my sorrow as your meat,
518My jealousy to sugar all you eat;
519And I—who once demanded proofs from you—
520Am tempted still to give you what is due.
521But no: the lesson learnt in later days
522Is not to feed a hunger born of praise.
523I will not mark your steps with salt and ash,
524Nor launch a curse that boomerangs to lash.
525I set my pen to name what love has cost,
526And then I fold the ledger for the lost.

527You loved my scent, the massed and minor art,
528The ritual that armours up the heart;
529You say you'll train her—till she walks as I,
530Till even silence sounds the same reply.
531Teach her, then—how to leave a room with poise,
532How not to wear an ankle like a noise;
533Show her that satin bruises before dawn,
534That pearl needs breath, and leather must be worn.
535But tell her, too, the thing you would not hear:
536That discipline is gentleness made clear.

537I have a list of places meant for us—
538The corner table, booth with private fuss;
539The autumn bench where Prufrock finds his fear,
540The bodega where the neon hums like prayer;
541The sushi plate where you would order mine,
542The quiet street that smelt of clove and pine.
543These are not trophies I can stand to see
544Paraded in another's mimicry.
545They are not jealous claims to guard or own—
546They are the roads I learn to walk alone.

547If I am cruel, it's in a sharpening way:
548I draw a line so love can learn to stay.
549You asked for vows; I offer not a ring,
550But mercy, which is fiercer than a thing.
551I bless the woman taught to wear my shoe,
552I bless the child that may look back at you;
553I bless the evenings you will not recall,
554The talks that dull the blade and spare the fall.
555And then I bless myself—to end the fight,
556To choose a decent ordinary light.

557Yet hear me: should you wish to lay aside
558The little wars that make a larger pride;
559Should you prefer a craft to best a mood,
560And build a life by labour into good;
561Should you recall that bread and book and rest
562Once seem'd a psalm that rose within your chest—
563Know there was once a house that bore our sign,
564Whose lintel I anointed, yours and mine.
565Its door stands open inward to the past;
566I will not dwell there, but I've shut it last.

567You taught me, too, that pity must be steel,
568That grandeur bends so tenderness can heal.
569So take this letter—both a thought and thread—
570A bandage laid across what once we bled.
571I will not ask if she can run in heels,
572Or raise an eyebrow at her ways and meals;
573I won't compare the timbre of her voice,
574Or weigh her manners like a counterpoise.
575I only ask you guard one vow we knew:
576Do not make theatre of the good and true.

577I end as I began—in second person, "you,"
578Because we only ever loved by two.
579But I will learn a grammar less possess'd,
580Where verbs are gentle, and the nouns can rest.
581May all the wardrobes open without pain;
582May shoes be worn for walking, not for reign;
583May restaurants remember what we meant,
584But not become a court of punishment.
585And may the life you meant for me to wear
586Become, in time, a life I will not bear.

587If I must see her in my tailored day,
588I'll let the sight be schooling, not dismay.
589For cloth can be remade, and meaning move;
590For taste can grow, and mercy prove its love.
591What's left for me is neither curse nor plea—
592It's choosing what I'll keep of you in me.
593Not Napa's theatre, not the cruel parade,
594But quiet skill and courage unafraid.
595I fold those up, like linens, washed and new,
596And put them in a drawer that locks from you.