The Road

I like the story of the circus waif bought by the man-of-weights to be his mistress, Profit the demon dragging her to market and Lust the soul who paid in lire for her. I like the peculiarities of her faith, the startling quality of that innocence, kissing the hand that dealt her cruelty believing, poor and dumb, that this was love. I relish a destitution stripped to sing pure in a voice all passion and denial: such are the driven burning by their breath more than mere air allows and cold permits. I savor my own involvement and concern lest all the transformations seem unreal, lest love be painted water-sweet and classic rather than salt and anguish to the end. I like her squatting in the village road combing the dust for something of her own, coming away belonging and committed, roots to be cherished, stones she could befriend. And what I like the subtlest and profoundest is that the circus traveled grief to grief educating the waif into a woman loving and beautiful and fiercely proud. I think of the sense of fury in that road, stooping to scratch the earth out for a life somewhere awaiting finding in one’s name. I like that, and I like the word Expense. I think of the years together which they had, the strong-man working her into the act, that hint, despite himself, of some devotion. I like that, and I like the ring of Cost. Not in a root, or stone, but in a man she found a thing to hold her tenderness. I like her dedication after that, her saying, if she spoke, I live by this. And what I like pervasive and forever is that my eyes have wept the tale before, wanting the telling not so much as story but for the way the waif befits my life.