The Trouble with “In”
Heather McHugh
In English, we’re in trouble,
Love’s a place
we fall into, so
sooner or later they ask
How deep? Time’s a measure
of extent, so sooner or later
they ask How long? We keep
some comforters inside a box,
the heart inside a chest,
but still it’s there the trouble with the dark
accumulates the most. The end of life
is said to be
a boat to a tropic,
good or bad. The suitor wants
to size up what he’s getting into, so he gets
her measurements. But how much
is enough? The best man cannot
help him out—he’s given to his own
uncomfortable cummerbund. Inside the mirror,
several bridesmaids look
and look, in the worst
half-light,
too long, too little, not enough alike.
And who can stand to be
made up for good? And who can face
being adored? I swear
there is no frame
that I would keep you in.
I didn’t love a shape
and later find you fit it—
every day your sight was a surprise.
You made my taste, made sense,
made eyes. But when you set me up
in high esteem, I was a star
that’s bound, in time,
to fall. The bound’s
the sorrow of the song.
I loved you to no end,
and when you said, “So far,”
I knew the idiom: it meant So long.
