| The tombstone told when she died.
|
| Her two surnames stopped me still.
|
| A virgin married at rest.
|
| She married in this pouring place,
|
| That I struck one day by luck,
|
| Before I heard in my mother’s side
|
| Or saw in the looking-glass shell
|
| The rain through her cold heart speak
|
| And the sun killed in her face.
|
| More the thick stone cannot tell.
|
| Before she lay on a stranger’s bed
|
| With a hand plunged through her hair,
|
| Or that rainy tongue beat back
|
| Through the devilish years and innocent deaths
|
| To the room of a secret child,
|
| Among men later I heard it said
|
| She cried her white-dressed limbs were bare
|
| And her red lips were kissed black,
|
| She wept in her pain and made mouths,
|
| Talked and tore though her eyes smiled.
|
| I who saw in a hurried film
|
| Death and this mad heroine
|
| Meet once on a mortal wall
|
| Heard her speak through the chipped beak
|
| Of the stone bird guarding her:
|
| I died before bedtime came
|
| But my womb was bellowing
|
| And I felt with my bare fall
|
| A blazing red harsh head tear up
|
| And the dear floods of his hair. |