Chicken-wire smothers my
Artichoke heart,
She adores her young, athletic organs-
I sleep alone in the park-
A gypsy of fiberglass and
Stucco satellites-,
She hangs breathless from the nape
Of sweet young constellations
Perfumed of antiquarian nard,
Like reclining ingénues;
Stormy and drenched,
Up all hours at the unopened gas-station
Of my homeless Appalachia;
She breastfeeds in the restaurants and
The kitchens across the fertile divide, while
The pull strings and wires of my
Marionettes go unabused-
I sign the check and tip my
Hat,
Grinning madly at the table in the shrinking
House- With no one to hold my hand,
And carry the other half of the bill
Here at the dinner parties of old news.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem