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|
Comments about Marilyn Hacker
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 ...
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 . . .)