The Mirror

    Dr. Alfonso Barabinsky wants to go outside I hold him down with my smaller body. He walks, runs from his shoes to my kitchen. He is drinking in my kitchen, He swims in my kitchen with his varicose fat legs. Alfonso, you fool. You think it is brave to drink vodka all morning on an empty stomach. The walls of our apartment flash. The walls of our apartment stand. They are bombing his hospital. He washes my face. He fingerspells the names of patients. The shadow of his fingers huge on the whitewashed wall. The walls of our apartment flash. When the bombs fall we make children. He kneels and kisses through my skin the shape of our only child. They are bombing his office. Takes his glasses off and lays them on the table like a shining weapon. Throws his t-shirt at our cat, fat hangs over his belt. Pulls a stolen lemon out his pocket. They are bombing his hospital office, But I am a ripe woman a man could be happy.

Now who could take you off to tiny life In one room or in two rooms or in three And cork you smartly, like the flask of wine You are? Not any woman. Not a wife. You'd let her twirl you, give her a good glee Showing your leaping ruby to a friend. Though twirling would be meek. Since not a cork Could you allow, for being made so free. A woman would be wise to think it well If once a week you only rang the bell. [From: Brooks, G. (1963) Selected Poems . New York: HarperPerennial, p9]

Outside the cold, cold night; the dripping rain... The water gurgles loosely in the eaves, The savage lashes stripe the rattling pane And beat a tattoo on November leaves. The lamp wick gutters, and the last log steams Upon the ash-filled hearth. Chill grows the room. The ancient clock ticks creakily and seems A fitting portent of the gathering gloom. This is a night we planned. This place is where One day, we would be happy; where the light Should tint your shoulders and your wild flung hair. - Whence we would - oh, we planned a merry morrow - Recklessly part ways with the old hag, Sorrow... Outside the dripping rain; the cold, cold night. [From: Sterling, B. A. (1996) The Collected Poems of Sterling A. Brown . Evanston, III: TriQuarterly Books, p]

Close your eyes. A lover is standing too close to focus on. Leave me blurry and fall toward me with your entire body. Lie under the covers, pretending to sleep, while I’m in the other room. Imagine my legs crossed, my hair combed, the shine of my boots in the slatted light. I’m thinking My plant, his chair, the ashtray that we bought together. I’m thinking This is where we live. When we were little we made houses out of cardboard boxes. We can do anything. It’s not because our hearts are large, they’re not, it’s what we struggle with. The attempt to say Come over. Bring your friends. It’s a potluck, I’m making pork chops, I’m making those long noodles you love so much. My dragonfly, my black-eyed fire, the knives in the kitchen are singing for blood, but we are the crossroads, my little outlaw, and this is the map of my heart, the landscape after cruelty which is, of course, a garden, which is a tenderness, which is a room, a lover saying Hold me tight, it’s getting ...

I Not my best side, I'm afraid. The artist didn't give me a chance to Pose properly, and as you can see, Poor chap, he had this obsession with Triangles, so he left off two of my Feet. I didn't comment at the time (What, after all, are two feet To a monster?) but afterwards I was sorry for the bad publicity. Why, I said to myself, should my conqueror Be so ostentatiously beardless, and ride A horse with a deformed neck and square hoofs? Why should my victim be so Unattractive as to be inedible, And why should she have me literally On a string? I don't mind dying Ritually, since I always rise again, But I should have liked a little more blood To show they were taking me seriously. II It's hard for a girl to be sure if She wants to be rescued. I mean, I quite Took to the dragon. It's nice to be Liked, if you know what I mean. He was So nicely physical, with his claws And lovely green skin, and that sexy tail, And the way he looked at ...

                               1 Now that I, tying thy glass mask tightly, May gaze thro' these faint smokes curling whitely, As thou pliest thy trade in this devil's-smithy - Which is the poison to poison her, prithee?                                2 He is with her, and they know that I know Where they are, what they do: they believe my tears flow While they laugh, laugh at me, at me fled to the drear Empty church, to pray God in, for them! - I am here.                                3 Grind away, moisten and mash up th...

Why—do they shut Me out of Heaven? Did I sing—too loud? But—I can say a little "Minor" Timid as a Bird! Wouldn't the Angels try me Just—once—more Just—see—if I troubled them But don't—shut the door! Oh, if I—were the Gentleman In the "White Robe" And they—were the little Hand—that knocked Could—I—forbid?

From the first it had been like a Ballad. It had the beat inevitable. It had the blood. A wildness cut up, and tied in little bunches, Like the four-line stanzas of the ballads she had never quite Understood - the ballads they had set her to, in school. Herself: the milk-white maid, the "maid mild" Of the ballad. Pursued By the Dark Villain. Rescued by the Fine Prince. The Happiness-Ever-After. That was worth anything. It was good to be a "maid mild." That made the breath go fast. Her bacon burned. She Hastened to hide it in the step-on can, and Drew more strips from the meat case. The eggs and sour-milk biscuits Did well. She set out a jar Of her new quince preserve. ...But there was something about the matter of the Dark Villain. He should have been older, perhaps. The hacking down of a villain was more fun to think about When his menace possessed undisputed breath, undisputed height, And a harsh kind of vice And best of all, when his hist...

Your vividness grants color where   Great need is, in this dingy town,   As you in pride of rose and brown      Thread the dull thoroughfare. Across the Southern sleepiness    Flashes a something swiftly real:    The unavoidable appeal       Of your sharp loveliness. And not as Cavalier scions, do    These listless Southrons, furtive-eyed,    Greet gracefully your proper pride, -        But wonderstruck at you, Regret awhile, that aliens    They will remain, darkly allured    By an inviolable, assured,        Laughing indifference. You pass, provocative, discreet,    Serenely waving to his place,    Each lover of your bronzen face,        Your merry, flashing feet. The impudence filling your eyes    Will call down on your swarthy ...

You do not do, you do not do Any more, black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo. Daddy, I have had to kill you. You died before I had time—— Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, Ghastly statue with one gray toe Big as a Frisco seal And a head in the freakish Atlantic Where it pours bean green over blue In the waters off beautiful Nauset. I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du. In the German tongue, in the Polish town Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common. My Polack friend Says there are a dozen or two. So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw. It stuck in a barb wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ich, I could hardly speak. I thought every German was you. And the language obscene. An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a Jew. A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen. I began to...