Regretfully Yours

A Poem by Sunil Iyengar

“Try to be one of those on whom nothing is lost.”—Henry James

If only I could, had been, or still were!
Sorry, H.J., but things are always lost
On me, with no retrieval possible.
I take your preposition with the care
Embroidered into every word you write,
A seamstress’s trick. “On” is to set off
Memories of blowing bubbles as a kid:
Worlds within worlds, collapsing at the touch 
Of skin. Where did they go? Or those mosquitoes
Dive-bombing into my neck. They were lost
On me all right. Master, is this your drift?
My surfaces are open at the pores.
The problem is they lack more than retention.
Here captives have been held until they die.

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Henry James, John Singer Sargent, 1913

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