Tuesday, October 1, 2013


by Robert Wexelblatt

The still bedroom was dimmed by blue drapes.
Though they were outside time it mattered
it should be a November afternoon
when exertion brought its own reward.
He was an expiring salmon expending the
last erg of energy in the sweet water
of his birth; wave on wave buoyed him
then dropped until he plumbed the
matrix of all metaphor, perishing
with limbs of lead into the dusky void—
only to renew the compulsive cycle
of recurrence heralded by Nietzsche,
framed by Klimt, explicated by Freud.

Was it the love of death,
the death of love, or merely one
soul lost in the release of spirit,
the love that feels like death?

Memory shuffles delight up with regret.
When did the Lovedeath turn to the death of
love, the death of love to the love of death?
Was it in the middle of a sentence
or in the silence between breath and breath?

Robert Wexelblatt is professor of humanities at Boston University’s College of General Studies. He has published essays, stories, and poems in a wide variety of journals, two story collections, Life in the Temperate Zone and The Decline of Our Neighborhood, a book of essays, Professors at Play; his novel, Zublinka Among Women, won the Indie Book Awards First Prize for Fiction. His most recent book is a short novel, Losses.

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