Rebecca

(On remembering Daphne du Maurier quite suddenly)

Maxim de Winter,

I need to ask you today

did Rebecca win again?

I cannot find the book,

but I must remember

and like a stranger’s

whetted curiosity,

I need to know

more about those

neatly filed letters

she signed with her

imposing slanting R.

So I crawl into every frame

I can recall from the

once-read book,

like a persistent shadow

you cannot sever.

Manderley

with its fumes

of unkempt gardens

had promised a new beginning.

And here, you said,

words seldom matter,

shapes do.

And I named the

shape I met on

a sudden afternoon

Rebecca.

Like a glove

the name fit.

Maxim, you ask me

To hold on,

like a child

tied to a kite

spread against the sky.

A human butterfly.

But soon, Manderley

was licked by flames,

burning down

all the assurances

ever made.

Maxim de Winter,

I need to ask you today,

didn’t Rebecca win again?