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The woman is perfected |
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Her dead |
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Body wears the smile of accomplishment, |
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The illusion of a Greek necessity |
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5 |
Flows in the scrolls of her toga, |
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Her bare |
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Feet seem to be saying: |
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We have come so far, it is over. |
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Each dead child coiled, a white serpent, |
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10 |
One at each little |
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Pitcher of milk, now empty |
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She has folded |
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Them back into her body as petals |
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Of a rose close when the garden |
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15 |
Stiffens and odors bleed |
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From the sweet, deep throats of the
night flower. |
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The moon has nothing to be sad about, |
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Staring from her hood of bone. |
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She is used to this sort of thing. |
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20 |
Her blacks crackle and drag. |