A speaker confronts a lover—or perhaps a former servant or subject—after what seems like fifty years of entanglement, demanding one thing: “your very flesh.” There is almost no tenderness here. Instead, the voice is possessive and exhausted, mixing desire with bitterness. The other person offers a ruined soul, and the speaker refuses it, comparing himself to a barbarian seeking shelter from Rome’s legions. Images of shattered bulbs, faded crimson crepe paper, and shore debris create a mood of decayed carnival. The poem turns darkly sacred and profane, calling on God to take a holiday and inviting Lucifer with his cats and pearls, as if only forbidden fire can revive what has gone cold. By the end, only physical surrender could “halt the music and disperse the carnival,” but the final moon is immense and deathly cold, like the chill of the drowned. The mood is hypnotic, mournful, and a little menacing.
I Don't Know What to Title This — Summary
What else could you possibly offer me But your very flesh? Or do you wish I would dwell in the ruins of your soul, To take refuge there, like a Barbarian From the siege of Rome’s legions?
Fifty years, a feast of shattered bulbs Among festoons of crimson crepe paper Faded by time Like debris strewn about the shore.
What else could you give to the one who had been your master but your very flesh? This, no matter how much you always Denied me not the greetings Of those who open their lives to summer, But the farewell of hostile winter.
May God take his holiday, May Lucifer to this tenement come With his nights and pearls, With the laughter of his cats, and the fire That in your heart I would rob Like a jewel stolen In the tavern of those who love.
What else but your very flesh Could halt the music and disperse the carnival Where not even oblivion dances?
Fifty years, and the moon, Immense as the chill of the drowned.