Her hips were the pillow
I ruined myself on --
the porch for my swing --
how I would do it,
and do it! As if a wind
tipped the sprocket of pelvis
and I became a machine
she could not stop.
But who wove the spell
I suffered under?
And who could break it?
Whose was the will
that eddied and eddied
and who was the still pool
it emptied into?
And where, where was the joy?
Back to the Marlboro Review Home Page
Back to the Marlboro Review Archive