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Teresia Sherley
- Ohio University Press
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Teresia Sherley Waking in the Sussex dewfall with the first light showing through, Hearing English rustlings, stirrings, as the day begins anew, Grateful for surprise, survival, for my exiled life with you As my lawless mind betrays me and I’m neither here nor there, Neither bride nor wife nor mother, still sublimely unaware That there was a place called England, that we had a life to share— So in no place I lie hearing sounds that give me to the past, Wagons creaking, kitchen clatter—but I know the dawn has passed And no call from dawn’s muezzin told me night had gone at last. Still I stay here for a moment not consenting quite to wake, Over Esfahan’s green gardens I remember morning break, Yellow light on pools and plane trees, and the shadows that they make And the sudden breeze of sunrise, like a nervous lover’s hands Hardly touching, but still touching, as my body understands, Like a whisper that insists on life’s importunate demands Tugging me to love and pleasure, to what passes as we sleep, To the roses’ quick unfolding, to the moments that won’t keep, To the ruin of a childhood, and the tears that parents weep. When you begged my hand in marriage and the shah gave his consent Gossip called me Christian payment or a pretty compliment But I’d seen you and considered what a marriage with you meant— You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. Strangeness always my companion, at my side and in my bed, Unknown syllables exulting in my mouth and in my head Silences I couldn’t fathom, all my faux pas left unsaid, But what’s marriage but a launching of a life to the unknown? Whether yoked to some poor dervish, or the partner to a throne, Women’s lives stay inextricably dependent and alone: And the glamour of your difference was rubbed amber to a straw, As I trembled like a mouse beneath some cat’s capricious paw Barely breathing “Yes” when asked if I approved of what I saw. If the hazards I accepted were no worse than others choose Still I feared my life without you if it seemed I might refuse— All the ways I could be left alone with nothing left to lose, So I came to you, became your wife and, as you said, your friend, Ignorant of everything—except my nagging need to spend All my days within the dream-life I could not allow to end. Promises proliferate; an alien in a curious land, Drawn to lives I thought I’d be a part of, love, and understand, Clutching at what can’t be closed on by a fumbling foreign hand— This I shared with you, my darling, when I saw you lost, unsure As the conversation chanced on turns you hadn’t bargained for, As Rejection smiled urbanely, and Discretion closed the door, Left you what you were, a stranger, and you saw—whatever you did— Though the phantom Friendship beckoned, smiled and simpered, she eluded All attempts to hold her: you stayed welcomed, baffled, and excluded. You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. [44.198.162.35] Project MUSE (2024-03-29 13:50 GMT) This we shared in Europe, feted in Vienna, Prague and Spain As the entertaining envoys of the shah’s exotic reign, While the gaudy greetings withered to politely phrased disdain— And the Vatican, remember, when beneath St. Peter’s dome We were gawked at as the cicerones’ chicest sight in Rome, Dogged by strangeness till we rested in the place that you call home Where you looked in vain for childhood that you’d thought could never change And you realized that from now on life at best could rearrange Vistas lived through, and abandoned, and irrevocably strange. This we shared then, and we share it, and for this I let my eyes Open on the pallid half-light that I daily recognize As the emblem of my exile . . . but the harsh nostalgia dies: Neither Persian, no, nor English, as I see dawn’s light...