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...
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.
Her half-grown cats scuffle across the floor
trailing a slime of blood from where they fed.
I lock the door. They claw under the door.
I am an exile in my own bed.