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v. Coda She paused, looking at him for a moment with a smile. ‘My name? I am Mademoiselle Yvonne de Galais…’ Then she was gone. Le Grand Meaulnes, Alain Fournier We trudged under the lash of measurement, each pulse a question, Will the next scan be clear? pursued by odds we’d too soon hear Your cancer is past treatment. Against that hour I sifted memory for the clarity a tango with extinction brings: not the last ten winter years when we grew close, chance-met again after half a century, but three months as your subject while you slummed it, a pubescent uptown rose dallying with a bit of rough. I refined myself after that brief encounter, quarried Wordsworth, Eliot, Lowell, Yeats, cast your deities as mine, pictured us kneeling at their shrine, but the conjunctive moment past worshipped alone. 88
page 91
I’ll sing no sad songs for you, my dearest, now you are dead, instead for kaddish will surrender the rage loving you engendered and the still-born dreams that drove me lee-rail buried down the years. Jill Rubinson i.m. 17.08.1943 – 30.07.2018 89

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v. Coda She paused, looking at him for a moment with a smile. ‘My name? I am Mademoiselle Yvonne de Galais…’ Then she was gone.

Le Grand Meaulnes, Alain Fournier

We trudged under the lash of measurement, each pulse a question, Will the next scan be clear? pursued by odds we’d too soon hear Your cancer is past treatment. Against that hour I sifted memory for the clarity a tango with extinction brings: not the last ten winter years when we grew close, chance-met again after half a century, but three months as your subject while you slummed it, a pubescent uptown rose dallying with a bit of rough. I refined myself after that brief encounter, quarried Wordsworth, Eliot, Lowell, Yeats, cast your deities as mine, pictured us kneeling at their shrine, but the conjunctive moment past worshipped alone.

88

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