A poem: Of literary biographies

It's expedient she wrote that you should work to separate

the literary man from his clinging little wife. 

It’s appropriate she thought that an intellectual

should fail to see the value that he saw in hearth and home. 

But never do they look to see

the work she did

the love they had

Or how she must have borne the brunt

of his late nights with a candle

or electric lamp, it’s all the same

Or heard the mundane details of the office

that are left out of literary biographies

And offered him comfort

if only in food

or in small words

or in her body

The blame is made to go both ways

but far too often falls on her

She didn’t understand his work

Her needs were needy

Her children were hungry

and needed to be fed

And probably they needed a father

the way she needed a husband

who was there all the time

and loved her in deed

and not only in words

in words in words

But her children were his

And sometimes when he

was working late on that thing we all love

that so perfectly captures the age that he lived in

or going to lectures

only for men

Or perhaps later in time

she could have gained admittance

except for the other things

that needed to be done

Her work

Her life

Her intellectual life

that didn’t always mesh so neatly

And maybe she got angry

but she made the sacrifices willingly

And maybe he was grateful

but he didn’t say it often

But she knew

And she did it

because being without him

or with him on different terms

would hurt more than

the lost opportunities

and the lost moments

Which nevertheless

didn’t quite outweigh

The love

That biographers

Never quite get right.