celia
elizabeth robinson
My husband never called me his wife to my face
But it was clear enough to see when he came loping in
The room filled with the lowering sun and saw me
He would fetch up against the patinaed drawers, he would
Hold my hair up in those high lights and hang it between
Us like wet linens on a clothesline, and say, Celia —
The sun is leaving your silhouette on these white sheets
The sun was in his eyes when he examined my hair blind
-s casting high lights on it and we could hardly make out
Where the other person ended and the sunlight began
Behind them — “Celia” — and the lowering sun glossed over the scene
Brilliantining and blanching the chest, the drawers, Celia —
He would have loved the sight of me — “Celia!” — if he could
Only see me through the linens, with no sense for saying, Celia!
Elizabeth Robinson is a student of English hailing from Cambridge, England. Her poetry has been featured in Sontag Magazine and Perpetual Novice, and her essays on 20th-century female authors have appeared in Varsity and the Cambridge Review of Books.
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