Alexandrine for Jane

When I am most afraid I think of Jane, plain and
passionate, who spent all she had to go as far
as the coach would take her, the middle of nowhere,
fleeing from love, hope gone—and reason, because who
would leave behind her costly pearls, a gift that like
all gifts made her feel awkward, obligated, though
what she earned she abandoned too, keeping one small
parcel of necessities she meant to hold close
but forgot on the coach—and now the coach is gone,
over the horizon with the last of her coin—
she must be stripped of resources in this empty
place, a naked soul in her author’s fevered mind,
left at a crossroads by a white stone cross,
an ominous marker, dark encroaching, heather grown
to the very verge of the road, where will she go
but onto the moor to find a place to lie down;
she vows to wait His will in silence as she sinks;
and though I know there are chapters yet—the young god
who imagined her is not done—I am all dread
for Jane’s suffering, and breathless, as if I 
myself sank down, a cold heap on the heath, waiting
for the end—never mind I know what else awaits,
I know she will starve, be lashed by icy rain, she
will beg politely then with bitter edge declare,
you wished to turn me from the door on a night you
should not have shut out a dog—first she makes a rock
her pillow, and understands Not a tie holds me
to human society—there! in that moment
her author presses the nerve of fear, and Reader,
I feel forsaken, too: altogether alone.

MARILYN A. JOHNSON

Marilyn A. Johnson’s poetry has been published most recently in UCity Review, Plume, Pedestal, the Provincetown Independent, and Salamander. Her nonfiction books include The Dead Beat, a finalist for the Barnes & Noble Discover Prize and a Washington Irving Book Award winner. She lives in Briarcliff, New York, and at marilynjohnson.net.