The Mirror

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]

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...