The last time I saw Richard
I discuss Richard with Richard
during a therapy session. Imagining.
The old Gestalt Empty Chair Technique.
He sits in the chair opposite me,
so gangly, like he’s always been,
six foot five, legs too long
to ever be at ease, frame
meant for basketball, brain meant
for math, calculating the distance
to the hoop. His sudden stroke at seventeen
like a swoosh through the net, game-ending.
The last time I saw Richard, Joni sings,
and every time I wonder if it was.
The last time.
He was in the hospital with the bed tray
between us, and nothing much
to say. I had done him wrong,
as his father had, eloping
with his aunt. As his mother had
for favoring him. As his brother had
for forgiving him.
Was I to blame for not loving him,
beyond the cookies we baked for the team
and the occasional make-out sessions
when I gave in to my own loneliness
and his longing?
But where was I?
He sits across from me, no
longer in control of his limbs,
and I can hardly look at him,
even this projection. I didn’t
expect this solidity. But here he is,
waiting.
His face is twisted, his tongue
is re-learning to talk. He regards me
with bitterness. Tell me about despair, I long
to say. I will tell you about mine. He unlocks
his wheels and rolls away.
*
Betsy Mars is a prize-winning poet, photographer, and assistant editor at Gyroscope Review. Her poetry has been published in numerous journals and anthologies. Recent poems can be found in Minyan, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Sheila-Na-Gig, and Autumn Sky Poetry Daily. Her photos have appeared online and in print, including one which served as the Rattle Ekphrastic Challenge prompt in 2019. She has two books, Alinea, and her most recent, co-written with Alan Walowitz, In the Muddle of the Night. In addition, she also frequently collaborates with San Diego artist Judith Christensen, most recently on an installation entitled “Mapping Our Future Selves.”
Oh, Betsy. Such a moving, multi-layered look at lost love and regret.
Thank you so much, Ellen. I meant to reply sooner but my brain has been scattered. I really really appreciate your response to this poem, here and elsewhere in your comments. 🙏
Powerful. ❤️
Thank you, Donna 😘
Thorough, well-crafted devastation.
Thank you for the compliments and for feeling it. Nearly fifty years later now and I felt it all over again while writing it.
The poem captures me from the start with its honesty and poetic surprises such as “His stroke at seventeen / like a swoosh through the net, game-ending.” Thank you, Betsy.
Thank you so much. I’ve been meaning to acknowledge your kind and thoughtful comments. This was so hard to write but then it kind of took on a life of its own.