she's young, she said,but look at me,
I have pretty ankles,and look at my wrists,
I have prettywristso my god,
I thought it was all working,and now it's her again,every time she phones you go crazy,you told me it was overyou told me it was finished,listen,
I've lived long enough to become a good woman,why do you need a bad woman?you need to be tortured, don't you?you think life is rotten if somebody treats yourotten it all fits,doesn't it?tell me, is that it? do you want to be treated like a piece of shit?and my son, my son was going to meet you.
I told my sonand I dropped all my lovers.
I stood up in a cafe and screamedI'M IN
VE,and now you've made a fool of me. . .
I'm really me, she said, will you please hold me?
I've never been in one of these things before,
I said,these triangles. . .she got up and lit a cigarette, she was trembling all paced up and down,wild and hada small arms were thin,very thin and whenshe screamed and started beating me I held herwrists and then I got it through the eyes:hatred,centuries deep and true.
I was wrong and graceless the things I had learned had been wasted.there was no creature living as foul as I and all my poems werefalse.