Words by the brilliant poet, Carl Dennis.
On the Soul
They told you you owned it and you believed them,
Flattered as if a real-estate man,
Pointing to a mansion with a lofty portico
On the crest of a hill, had assured you it was yours,
And the dream sounded too good to be resisted
Even when the doorman had sent you around back,
Even after ten years’ work in the kitchen,
Ten years on your bed of straw
Dreaming of the empty suite upstairs
And of the empty bed with the crown
Hanging from the bedpost, bejeweled with your name.
It would have been better if they’d said nothing,
Or told you it lived its own life, like deer
Hidden in the woods, not seen from the road
As you drive past in the car, not seen
When you stop and climb the fence.
Even if they browse on your own land,
They’re happiest left alone,
Stepping down in the evening to the stream,
Bedding down in silence under a screen of thickets
To dream what you may guess at and can’t know.
