Possession

Lady-Chatterley-006The whole wandering, repetitive, occasionally bloated
mass of Lady Chatterley’s Lover is worth it
for Mellors last letter to Connie, I type, and click

send, just as my son wakes screaming
at 11 pm on a Saturday night. And  as I lay
there, fighting sleep, two short pages left in the thing

Lawrence called the one bright book of life, laid flat
on the edge of couch, one fat side of finished
story, one skimpy Afterword as delicately turned

up as my son’s twitching black lashes, one word
flashes in my head: Mellors. The lover, alone
in his pastoral place, writing: Mellors, in error,

no apostrophe, glaring: the long white flame
of his body fused with his scratching pen. Mellors
in the borderlands with me, not quite asleep, curious

if and when he owns that letter to his lover, knitting
in a Scottish drawing room, needles clicking softly
against her swelling belly’s swoon. When do we move

from being into action? From action into ownership?
You write it, you own it, you break it, you buy it, Mellors
in a sudden fusion: this is mine, now, mine, all these

stand-ins for invisible, mum time: my son’s breath, a hair’s
breath, his lashes now still, a comma that wanders
up high, come HERE, you pesky thing, stay put, you WILL—

All the bad times that have ever been, haven’t been able
to blow the crocus out. What is yours, and what
is his, and what is mine, oh— so they won’t be able

to blow out my wanting you, not the little glow—

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About evanduyne

I'm assistant professor of writing at Stockton University, where I'm also affiliated faculty in the Women's, Gender, and Sexuality Studies program. I work on Sylvia Plath, contingent faculty, and creative writing around trauma and domestic violence.
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