Demas, in Love with This Present World - Poetry

Photo by Larry Fogdall

Demas, In Love with this Present World

                        2 Timothy 4: 9-10

What you heard is true—I’ve gone to Thessilonika.

My room sits above the agora with a view

of the harbor; I wake too early to merchant voices,

bleatings of every sort, carpets being beaten.

The innkeeper and his wife bring bread—they’re kind,

their daughter is pretty, though she has a withered hand.

At night I watch the fishing boats come in to shore,

hung with many lanterns. Men pull up their nets,

sort the catch in shifting light; they sometimes sing

a song about the moon seducing an old sailor

and drink a bit and fall asleep under their robes.

Later someone puts the lights out one by one.

In between, the days are slow, I think of you often.

I know what some are saying, that I loved my father

and his estate more than truth, our way of life.

It wasn’t the inheritance that called me back,

and I won’t return to the assembly or his house.

Demetrius is here, asleep beside me as I write.

He has thrown one of his warm legs over me

in a dream, and two pears with a jar of wine wait

on the table for when he wakes. I wish you understood

how it feels to fear the truth while also loving him.

I still believe this present world is passing away,

but now it is impossible to rejoice with you.

Walking outside the city gates, sometimes

I look up into the mountains, toward Rome

where all of you are waiting and want to come back—

but it doesn’t last. I walk home through the colonnade,

listening to temple priests and fortune tellers,

eastern caravans selling cedar, pearls, linen.

The innkeeper’s daughter greets me at the door,

weak hand cupped to her breast.  She has been

praying to a small bright god in the corner

of her room, for health and peace, as she has been taught.

I will go upstairs and place my arms around the loved

and living body of one who owns no household gods,

who confesses no world but this. We will watch

the sky turn dark, wait for fishermen to light

their lamps and disappear across the invisible sea.

I pray to the God I remember, whom I love and fail

to love, knowing words are all I have to bind

us to each other, knowing they are passing too.

- Published with a slightly different form in Poetry July 2000.