Poetry

The first horn lifts its arm over the dew-lit grass
and in the slave quarters there is a rustling—
children are bundled into aprons, cornbread

Waking one morning
we cannot find
Kate or Wesley,
or his cows and sheep,

Those in the parlors reading the still stories, the slow stories
Look out the window, then read, then look out slowly.

Herculasses, a feminine fauna.
Naked as the crashing of barrels.
Cooped up on top of trampled beds.

It is night. I feel it is night
not because darkness has fallen
(what do I care about darkness falling)
but because down in myself the shouting
has stopped, has given up.

unbalance the flowers on their stems:
their brute grace fisted me silly. Now
I’m sodden as Sunday. Greeks
couldn’t speak of my feelings, I’m a zoo baby.