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|
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.
Her spotted mongrel, bristling with red mange,
sleeps on the threshold of the Third Street bar
where I drink brandy as the couples change.
I am in exile where my neighbors are.
On the pavement, cans of ashes burn.
Her green lizard ...
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