I Marry Jane Kenyon Every Fiveyears Poem by Bernard Henrie

1 Year

There's just no accounting for happiness,
…Happiness

She sat with the men and took a Rémy Martin,
V.S.O.P between her palms. As she bent forward
to light my Havana, I could see into her green dress
all the way to the navel.

She looked like a very fast swimmer.

“Are you a mermaid? ” I asked.

“Darling, give me a Churchman’s No.1, please.”

Whimsical diffidence as when Jane Kenyon
met Donald Hall or Sylvia Plath at Cambridge
bit Ted Hughes’ cheek so hard he was bleeding.

Year Five

...white irises, red peonies; and the poppies
with their black and secret centers...
lie shattered on the lawn…Heavy Summer Rain

After our first married quarrel, we sailed
to America. She stood at the glacis railing
of the lounge, eye shadow the tint of maple aide,
fending the salutes of handsome young
lynx, her copy of Jane Kenyon in a hip pocket
formed to her impeccable backside;
A princess on steps of the Forbidden Palace
fingers in greeting splayed open like a jeweled fan.

Year 10

...take the trouble to speak; someone
who can't sleep, or who does nothing
but sleep; can't read, or call...
for an appointment for help…Having it Out with Melancholy

The year I lost my job she offered intimate
kisses as though offering hot bread in aluminum
foil until I no longer needed her so desperately.
She abided my black dyed ponytail, my drifting
Havana smoke turning the room the color
of a gas pilot light.

Year 15

And the merchant's wife, still
in her yellow dressing gown
at noon, dips her quill into India ink
with an air of cautious pleasure…Dutch Interiors

She began writing,
taking my photographs and translating
them into stories; our marriage
with the age disparity, our first quarrel
that ended divinely on the SS United States
at latitude I do not remember, in raging frost
we made into our own Honolulu, gifting bananas
yellow as the new convertible I was finally
able to buy her.

Year 20

When I awake, I am still with thee
…Having it Out with Melancholy

She told stories after dark, but the dark tonight
passes like a phantom empty of her reading
Jane Kenyon to me, clear she is gone
and not returning, but I offer a Rémy Martin
to the room, to the air, love’s melancholy voice
spoken to an empty room.