Alison in Memory

The time you missed Mass
After giggling you wanted to hear choirboys
You blamed it on the furniture, mostly
On the harpsichord your father, the spy,
Lugged up to the fourth floor in Somerville
The day you were released from MacLean.
All great artists go there you said brightly,
Clutching some flowers a nurse had given you.
The admission standards have plummeted I said.

What a mess of pink scars you were, my young love,
A map of too much Bach and Nin and
Wine. You lured me drunk one night
To Lincoln because you said your heat
Was broken. I found you in your brother's bed
Coiled innocent as a cat
And naked and smiling for me to come too,
To the white folds that in the Massachusetts
Moonlight looked like foam, and you were floating.

I wrapped a towel around the bones
That had trembled at the touch of orderlies and Uncles:
I knew my touch would not be
Noticed, not felt and I shivered to think
I could not keep you warm
But that one January night in Boston.