Old women do not die easily, nor
are their deaths timely. They make a habit
of outliving men, so that, as I’m still here,
I’m able to say clearly that when Prospero
said he took over an uninhabited island
save for Caliban and the enslaved
Ariel, he lied.
I LIVED ON THAT ISLAND.
It was my property (at least as much
as it was anybody else’s). He
drove me away, made himself king, set up
his props and bided his time.
Now that they’ve gone
I may return, and ask myself, not who
they were, but who I was and what I mourn.
There’s greenery left, a clear stream or two,
and Ariel, perhaps, checking his reflection
in yet another pool. Caliban’s gone,
went with the gods who were only men. It’s
what he deserves. He wanted so much
to be just like them.
What is my task?
Because they’ve gone, must I go too? Take leave
of my senses one by one, or two by two?
The good witch Sycorax has bright blue eyes
and now she’s on her own she may fantasise.
