Biography of Marilyn Hacker
Marilyn Hacker Poems
Nearly A Valediction
You happened to me. I was happened to like an abandoned building by a bull- dozer, like the van that missed my skull happened a two-inch gash across my chin.
It is the boy in me who's looking out the window, while someone across the street mends a pillowcase, clouds shift, the gutter spout pours rain, someone else lights a cigarette?
Her brown falcon perches above the sink as steaming water forks over my hands. Below the wrists they shrivel and turn pink. I am in exile in my own land.
Scars On Paper
An unwrapped icon, too potent to touch, she freed my breasts from the camp Empire dress. Now one of them's the shadow of a breast with a lost object's half-life, with as much
for Audre Lorde and Sonny Wainwright Twice in my quickly disappearing forties someone called while someone I loved and I were
After Joseph Roth Parce que c'était lui; parce que c'était moi. Montaigne, De L'amitië
We pace each other for a long time. I packed my anger with the beef jerky. You are the baby on the mountain. I am in a cold stream where I led you.
Rune Of The Finland Woman
For Sára Karig "You are so wise," the reindeer said, "you can bind the winds of the world in a single strand."—H. C. Andersen, "The Snow Queen"
For K. J., Leaving And Coming Back
August First: it was a year ago we drove down from St.-Guilhem-le-Désert to open the house in St. Guiraud
This is for Elsa, also known as Liz, an ample-bosomed gospel singer: five discrete malignancies in one full breast. This is for auburn Jacqueline, who is
Spring wafts up the smell of bus exhaust, of bread and fried potatoes, tips green on the branches, repeats old news: arrogance, ignorance, war. A cinder-block wall shared by two houses
Paragraphs From A Day-Book
Cherry-ripe: dark sweet burlats, scarlet reverchons firm-fleshed and tart in the mouth bigarreaux, peach-and-white napoléons as the harvest moves north
Said the old woman who barely spoke the language: Freedom is a dream, and we don't know whose. Said the insurgent who was now an exile: When I began to write the story I started bleeding.
It is the boy in me who's looking out
the window, while someone across the street
mends a pillowcase, clouds shift, the gutter spout
pours rain, someone else lights a cigarette?
(Because he flinched, because he didn't whirl
around, face them, because he didn't hurl
the challenge back—"Fascists?"—not "Faggots"—Swine!
he briefly wonders—if he were a girl . . .)