A Death Beyond Means

Oscar Wilde was its original practitioner, 
schooled in the art of a counseled death, 
loudly put to bed with an inflammation

of the brain—or else, it was just being 
out of fashion, which over time was worse 
for the constitution: the gradual lapsing

of affectation (dyed verdigris carnations,
gifts of china for the housekeepers and man-
servants) and affection (Mavor, Tankard

and two unnamed youths, Parker; Walter
Grainger, who was a plain or even ugly boy, 
who was not, insisted Wilde, so appealing 

as a doormat, and could never be madly 
adored, for as he remarked, I prefer love).
Or else, it was the slaughter of the rain

against the hospital window, which was
a French downpour, again, not so fluttered
as the rain at the Albemarle, which was 

a rebuking kindness.  Douglas (Alfred,
the Younger) knew it was a giving of faith
to nothing and no one in particular; the age

of decadence, which was long in coming;
the false inspiration of near-black Irish stout
and violins; it was the pawning of muses, 

whose love inspired but never spoke, except
to remind him from the top of the stairwell: 
Oscar, you cannot write about me, now.

 

© Seth Abramson

from Notre Dame Review