A Timid Maiden
Everything was simple and gay
When he was with you
Yet you put him aside for an old woman
And a weeping boy
You shall die between them
Wither and die
But not before you dry from weeping
And your songs are cackles
Your hair something to scratch
No longer what the wind loves to caress
And in your may-june-december face
Your eyes like cold greasy cups
In a kitchen of dirty lazy servants
O your face
As clean of his kisses and the knowledge of him
As a street mirror he might stand before
But even your mother cannot keep you from grief forever
You shall weep in her house
Yes you shall grow thin and pale and old in her house
Yes yes yes
Even she cannot save you
You shall hold out your hands
Asking her to give back your life
But she shall go from you
Taking it with her
He might have given your old age a meaning
He might have given you a history
He might have made your flesh signify
More than a war against decay
Goddamn you for a white cloud
That brings no rain no escape from the heat
You shall be always a bird close to its nest
Because you do not use your wings
You say there is no sky no earth no sea
You chaste Herodias
Pleading and praying for what you want
Never giving a command
Never demanding
Never prepared to risk life for life
You whose lovely hands are always an appeal
Goddamn you for a nervous pigeon
Fluttering near cocked triggers
Set to fire stores of dynamite
You slim white vase
Into which an old woman puts cut flowers
I tell you there shall come a season
When there shall be no flowers to cut
Let that old woman your mother
Tell you I would break you and kill you
Even your mother
Cannot make you live forever.
You think of the grave too much
You shall get from life too little
He was no paltry bargaining lover
He asked no questions
Answered no questions
He was neither for sale nor loan
He could not wait
Your mother'll wait
All spiders wait.
But love is not a creeping crawling thing
Love is a shield of steel
Men carry towards the sun
Into your tent girl
A man is passing
Peek at him sigh
Huddle over your charcoal fire
Sip hot soup
A man is passing
Even the animals are restless
But you prefer the cheesehouse quiet
And old women's talk
What kind of maid are you
Who wear no petticoats
And come like an African wind against him
And swoon like warm water against his cold flesh.
You ask if he knew you
He who walked from San Francisco to New York
To escape you
Taking his food from farmers
Sharing the bed of horses and cows
He who walked over a continent
To sweat you from his body
To draw your fever from his blood
To leave you behind him
A thousand worn-out nights
A thousand fresh mornings
A great heap of misery
Big enough to have a snowcapped peak
Yet you crossed over it
Followed him.
He could no more lose you than lose a mongrel dog
He wasted days on you
He offered wine to a plant
Kisses to a flower grown out of season
You are something for an old lady's table
You are something for an old man's buttonhole
You are not for long journeys
You are not for great flights.
When he was with you
Yet you put him aside for an old woman
And a weeping boy
You shall die between them
Wither and die
But not before you dry from weeping
And your songs are cackles
Your hair something to scratch
No longer what the wind loves to caress
And in your may-june-december face
Your eyes like cold greasy cups
In a kitchen of dirty lazy servants
O your face
As clean of his kisses and the knowledge of him
As a street mirror he might stand before
But even your mother cannot keep you from grief forever
You shall weep in her house
Yes you shall grow thin and pale and old in her house
Yes yes yes
Even she cannot save you
You shall hold out your hands
Asking her to give back your life
But she shall go from you
Taking it with her
He might have given your old age a meaning
He might have given you a history
He might have made your flesh signify
More than a war against decay
Goddamn you for a white cloud
That brings no rain no escape from the heat
You shall be always a bird close to its nest
Because you do not use your wings
You say there is no sky no earth no sea
You chaste Herodias
Pleading and praying for what you want
Never giving a command
Never demanding
Never prepared to risk life for life
You whose lovely hands are always an appeal
Goddamn you for a nervous pigeon
Fluttering near cocked triggers
Set to fire stores of dynamite
You slim white vase
Into which an old woman puts cut flowers
I tell you there shall come a season
When there shall be no flowers to cut
Let that old woman your mother
Tell you I would break you and kill you
Even your mother
Cannot make you live forever.
You think of the grave too much
You shall get from life too little
He was no paltry bargaining lover
He asked no questions
Answered no questions
He was neither for sale nor loan
He could not wait
Your mother'll wait
All spiders wait.
But love is not a creeping crawling thing
Love is a shield of steel
Men carry towards the sun
Into your tent girl
A man is passing
Peek at him sigh
Huddle over your charcoal fire
Sip hot soup
A man is passing
Even the animals are restless
But you prefer the cheesehouse quiet
And old women's talk
What kind of maid are you
Who wear no petticoats
And come like an African wind against him
And swoon like warm water against his cold flesh.
You ask if he knew you
He who walked from San Francisco to New York
To escape you
Taking his food from farmers
Sharing the bed of horses and cows
He who walked over a continent
To sweat you from his body
To draw your fever from his blood
To leave you behind him
A thousand worn-out nights
A thousand fresh mornings
A great heap of misery
Big enough to have a snowcapped peak
Yet you crossed over it
Followed him.
He could no more lose you than lose a mongrel dog
He wasted days on you
He offered wine to a plant
Kisses to a flower grown out of season
You are something for an old lady's table
You are something for an old man's buttonhole
You are not for long journeys
You are not for great flights.
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