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Hypocrite Women
Hypocrite women, how seldom we speak
of our own doubts, while dubiously
we mother man in his doubt!
And if at Mill Valley perched in the trees
the sweet rain drifting through the western air
a white sweating bull of a poet told us
our cunts are ugly -- why didn't we
admit that we have thought so too? (And
what shame! They are not for the eye!)
No, they are dark and wrinkled and hairy,
caves of the Moon . . . And
when a
dark humming fills us, a
coldness towards life,
we are too much women to
own to such unwomanliness.
Whorishly with the psychopomp
we play and plead -- and say
nothing of this later.
And our dreams,
with what frivolity we have pared them
like toenails, clipped them like the ends of
split hair.
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O Taste and See
The world is
not with us enough.
O taste and see
the subway bible poster said,
meaning The Lord, meaning
if anything all that lives
to the imagination's tongue,
grief, mercy, language,
tangerine, weather, to
breath them, bite,
savor, chew, swallow, transform
into our flesh our
deaths, crossing the street, plum, quince,
living in the orchard and being
hungry, and plucking
the fruit.
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The Ache of Marriage
The ache of marriage:
thigh and tongue, beloved,
are heavy with it,
it throbs in the teeth
We look for communion
and are turned away, beloved,
each and each
It is leviathan and we
in its belly
looking for joy, some joy
not to be known outside it
two by two in the ark of
the ache of it.
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