✨ Sestina of Human Longing
✨ Sestina of Human Longing
Can we know why...
Sestina of Human Longing
I begin this poem with a bird singing a song
that strikes my ear like the jangle a ring of keys
makes slapping a janitor’s hip, echo in memory,
bird synching & dipping over the river, reader,
as I walk south of town. I am learning French
through my headphones but I still hear the universe
thrumming over the litany: terre, planète, univers.
My language app uses game theory & little songs
play when I earn points. My avatar waves a French
flag on the weekly scoreboard. Ask anyone, a key
to fluency is consistency. At least I am good, reader,
at showing up, albeit virtually—in truth, the memory
of my trilingual parents guilts me into memorizing
verb tenses: partirai, partiras, partira. I will leave a universe
of questions unanswered when I go. For instance, reader,
why isn’t there ever enough time for poetry—those songs
in my youth, Plumly writing of rain the color of keys
& Wright’s “Homage to Paul Cezanne,” praising a French
painter with visions of the dead. I longed for France
before I ever saw France & then after too. The memory
of Paris floats the city inside the city, old hotel room keys
loose in coat pockets, lovers & husbands & a universe
of loneliness but beautiful. It’s like a favorite song
that brings everything back. I know you know, reader,
I know you know. I like having you here, reading
along patiently, traveling inside this stanza. French
lessons make me humble, as does trying to sing
anything. I have so many song lyrics memorized
& such a terrible voice. One of the basic rules of the universe,
fortunately, is that nothing is perfect. This is a key
premise from Stephen Hawking, (the locksmith!)
who famously wrote be brave, be curious, reader,
& be determined. Can we know why the universe
exists at all? I have put my hair up in a French
twist & shrugged into an old dress. I remember
walking to the river many times, same song
in my head, reader. The river rolls r’s in French,
aqua-throated, a universe of sound. Memory’s
strong, keys lost, pockets full of stones & songs.
—Katharine Whitcomb
From Habitats: Poems, Poetry Northwest Editions, Copyright © 2024. Used by permission of the poet. Photo by The Cleveland Museum of Art, Creative Commons, via Unsplash.