Marilyn Hacker Poems
|4.||Crepuscule with Muriel||5/23/2016|
|5.||Days of 1994: Alexandrians||5/23/2016|
|6.||[Didn't Sappho say her guts clutched up like this?]||5/23/2016|
|7.||Elegy for a Soldier||5/23/2016|
|8.||Nights of 1964—1966: The Old Reliable||5/23/2016|
|9.||from Paragraphs from a Day-Book (section 1 only)||5/23/2016|
|10.||Paragraphs From A Day-Book||1/3/2003|
|11.||For K. J., Leaving And Coming Back||1/3/2003|
|13.||Scars On Paper||1/3/2003|
|15.||Rune Of The Finland Woman||1/3/2003|
|18.||Nearly A Valediction||1/3/2003|
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
is new rubble. On one side was a kitchen
sink and a cupboard, on the other was
a bed, a bookshelf, three framed photographs.
Glass is shattered across the photographs;
two half-circles of hardened pocket bread
sit on the cupboard. There provisionally was
shelter, a plastic truck under the branches
of a fig tree. A knife flashed in the kitchen,
merely dicing garlic. Engines...
for Audre Lorde and Sonny Wainwright
Twice in my quickly disappearing forties
someone called while someone I loved and I were
making love to tell me another woman had died of cancer.
Seven years apart, and two different lovers:
underneath the numbers, how lives are braided,
how those women's death and lives, lived and died, were