You said you could live in my mind;
A house I would share with you—both
Our properties joined with a door:
Unlocked, then unhinged and removed.
I walk to my office and sit:
My swiveling chair and my files
Surround me. The cabinet drawer
Is dented—my knuckles have scars.
I open it—look, there's the snap
You took in Sedona, the curls
In stones that predated the ape.
The redness like bricks in that pic:
Your house in Virginia—I loved
That first home because it was yours.
And after that things got much worse
For you and for us—though I loved
The sanity felt with you—still
There—even though cliffs are a plunge,
No longer a sentinel-call
To make this thing love—to define
It carnally after the minds
Have joined and not prior. It meant—
I don't know what it meant for you—
It's the only memory that mattered to me.
"When Anita Hill accused Clarence Thomas of sexual harassment during his explosive 1991 Supreme Court confirmation hearing, Thomas vehemently denied the allegations and his handlers cited his steady relationship with another woman in an effort to deflect Hill's allegations.
Lillian McEwen was that woman. "
—Michael A. Fletcher, Washington Post Staff Writer, Friday, October 22, 2010
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2010/10/21/AR2010102106645.html
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