The Silver Stairs
Diana Senechal
When I staggered up the last of the silver stairs,
I barely registered their tarnishes.
I wanted to return a book to Frank before nightfall.
Four books in one. The Alexandria Quartet.
Then I saw you on the indoor stairs, surprised,
maybe angry to see me. I learned later
that Frank was throwing a party for you that night
and I had not been invited. You may have thought
that I showed up to spite you, but such acts
were even less on my mind than silver stairs
or their yellowing. I was thinking of the book itself,
of Justine and Clea and the way the story goes
through so many turnings. You don’t really know
who anyone is until the end, and then even less.
So don’t assume you knew why I had come.
My errand done, I left at once; isn’t that proof
enough for your accusing soul? But why
these hurlings anyway? I am no worse than those
silverish few you want to be seen around,
the ones whose names you listed and handed over
to Frank, who diligently made the calls, adding
in tarnished tones, “Don’t tell anyone about this.”
Secrets come loose at last, but most are vain.
Had I been invited, I probably would have dared
little more than a hello. I would have stood
with a beer in the corner, looking and thinking
on the room’s glow and shadow, the swift eyebrows,
the stories I didn’t know but could pick up,
the way we sing along with an unknown song,
our lips predicting the next shape of syllable,
our bodies figuring the beat to come.
In other words, it wouldn’t have been so bad
to open the doors. But even those left out
had a chance to walk the fifty silver stairs.
Those are for anyone. Worn down by daily feet
in common time, they keep their ancient promise.
“No one can keep you from us, least of all us.
We are for all who find us, all who climb
even a step or two, even by chance,
even just to return a book to someone—
Just? There’s no ‘just’ about something like that.
No chance, either. Whatever your purpose was,
it melts into our history, so silver
now pours into your act, and all your motions
will bear our shimmer, unbeknownst to you.”
That was what happened when I brought the book,
and saw you glaring on the stairs inside,
and turned around, confused, and went back down.
Image: Canaletto, A capriccio with a monumental staircase (drawing, c. 1755 – c. 1760).
I changed two words in this poem after posting it. I like this poem, even if no one else does. It has a rather unreliable narrator, who is making up stuff about the person she criticizes for (supposedly) doing the same about her. But still, even in that unreliability, there is some truth.
Take Away the Takeaway 
Jon Awbrey
/ August 24, 2021🙞 Plato’s Puppet Returns