The
young composer, working that summer at an artist's colony, had
watched
her for a week. She was Japanese, a painter, almost sixty, and
he
thought he was in love with her. He loved her work, and her work was
like
the way she moved her body, used her hands, looked at him directly
when
she made amused or considered answers to his questions. One
night,
walking back from a concert, they came to her door and she
turned
to him and said, "I think you would like to have me. I would like
that
too, but I must tell you I have had a double mastectomy," and
when he
didn't understand, "I've lost both my breasts." The radiance
that he
had carried around in his belly and chest cavity--like music--
withered,
very quickly, and he made himself look at her when he said,
"I'm
sorry. I don't think I could." He walked back to his own cabin
through
the pines, and in the morning he found a small blue bowl on the
porch
outside his door. It looked to be full of rose petals, but he found
when he
picked it up that the rose petals were on top; the rest of the
bowl--she
must have swept them from the corners of her studio--was
full of
dead bees.
I like that this poem tells an unhappy story very matter-of-factly and succintly, which makes the poem more powerful, but they still managed to include lines like "The radiance that he had carried around in his belly and chest cavity--like music--withered" which I really like. A bowl full of dead bees is a nice gift and I will keep that idea in mind.
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