W. B. paces his ponds

lilies lilies lilies

he says to any who will listen

and lotus too

his blank and fumbling stare

lotus lilies lotus lilies lilies lotus

right-arm sleeve hangs empty, aimless

Helen sits him under a tree

lilies lilies lilies he looks up

thinks her his wife

Lute my dear my Lucianna

she takes his left arm and pulls him up

Lucianna lily I named for you my dear my Lute

“Yes, thank you,” she says, looks away

At night he has bad dreams

cannon smoke and fire

his right arm disembodied, strangling him

he fights its grasp

Helen finds him on the floor

he sits bolt upright, says

Goddamn that war!

One night he’s missing

lantern-light finds him in a pond

waterlily plants pulled out by the root

stuffed under his arm

a lotus bloom peaking out his shirt

they grab a boat, pole out to him

he sits in water to his shoulders

scoops mud onto his head

Helen tugs at him with tears

he sits, silent, softly smiling

mud trickles down his face