Heart

The Heart of the Matter

He couldn’t look up; he saw only the priest’s skirt

like the skirt of the mediaeval warhorse bearing down

upon him: the flapping of feet: the charge of God.

—Graham Greene

For weeks I deserted my unfinished summer reading

            and the main character, Scobie—left him

Tortured and damned by his own infidelity and lies,

            his unworthy consumption of holy wafer and wine.

And for good reason—fall barreled down the road

            at me.  Each morning I delivered children to school.

I carted garbage to the road on designated days,

            dieted to shed pounds like ballast at middle age,

Fed the dog who waited with optimistic face

            like a rebuke by the back door—“surely

Today he will pick up the ball and play.”  And the suspended

            business with Scobie lingered too

Like nameless guilt, till the vagaries and pressures

            of some day woke me at three in the morning.

Then, reading the last thirty pages of The Heart

            of the Matter, I pushed money, work, and marriage out

Of mind:  Scobie kissed his mistress one last time, tried to feel

            the old affectionate pity for his wife,

Recorded in his diary necessary lies about heart pain,

            and swallowed twelve Evipan with a glass of gin.

The denouement is brief and decisive for him

            and me:  the letting go, the calling out

To God, the hope for love, the descent into darkness

            and sleep—sleep—blessed sleep.