James Thurber, The Thirteen ClocksNot that I cared about the other woman.Those perfumed breasts with heartsof pure rock salt.Lot’s wives-all of them.I didn’t careif they fondled him at parties,eased him in at homebetween a husband & a child,sucked him drywith vacuum cleaner kisses.It was the coldness that I minded,though he’s warned me.‘I’m cold,’ He said-…
— Naomi LazardMy friends are tired.The ones who are married are tiredof being married.The ones who are single are tiredof being single.They look at their wrinkles.The ones who are single attribute their wrinklesto being single.The ones who are married attribute their wrinklesto being married.They have very few wrinkles.Even taken together,they have very few wrinkles.But I…
the eagerstudents gather.They ask mewhat you needto be a writer& I, feeling flippant,jaunty(becauseI am wearingan 18th centurydress& thinkmyself in loveagain),answer:‘Mazel,dete rmination,talent, & truegrit.’I evenbelieve it-lookingas I dolike anadvertisementfor easysuccess-designer dress,sly smileon my lips& silver bootsfromOz.Supposethey saw memy eyesswollenlike sponges,my handshakingwith betrayal,my fearrampantin the dark?Suppose they sawthe fearof neverwriting,the fearof beingalone,the money fear,the fear fear,the fearof…
is God& I say to Kabiryou are the breath inside that breathwhich is not to saythat the poet is God-but only that Goduses the poetas the windusesa sail.
in the same wind.It fought us up the hillto your house,blew us in the door.The elevator roseon guests of stale airfed on ancient dinners.Your room smelledof roach spray and roses.In those dayswe went to bed with Marvell.The wind ruffled sheets and pages,spoke to us through walls.For hours I used to liewith my ear to your…
toward our death,we pierce a rosy cloud& hit clean air,we glide abovethe red infernal smog,we leave the mammon cityfar behind.Here – where the air is clearas nothing,where cactus padsare prickly as stars,where buffalo chipsare gilded by the sun& the moon tastes like a peppermint-we land.‘Have we flown to heaven?’I inquired(& meant it).The airport was a…
in my husband’s house& the snow gently rising in my throatlike guilt,& the windows frosted overas if etched by acid.You have come from the desert& have left a little sandbetween my legswhere it rubs & rubs& secretes a milky fluid,finally a poemor a pearl.I am your oyster shell,your mother of pearlgleaming like oil on waterfor…
then stopped loving her,while she did notstop loving him.There is only one story:she loved him,then stopped loving him,while he did notstop loving her.The truth is simple:you do not diefrom love.You only wishyou did.
I told myselfif it bloomedour love would bloom,& if it died-O I did notconsiderthe possibility.It died.Though I cutthe stemon a slantas my mothertaught me,though I droppedan aspirinin the water,it hung its headlike a spent cock& died.It standson my desk now-straight green stalk,blood-red clotof buddroopinglike a hanged man’shead.Does this meanwe are doomed?Does this meanall loversare doomed?O…
of telephone wires,you with your white paper soultrampled in transit,you with kaleidoscope stamps& black cancellations,you who put your finger on my heart as I slept,you whom I jostle in elevators,you whom I stare at in subways,you shopping for love in department stores. . .I write to you& someone else answers:the man who hates his wife&…
