Those groans men usepassing a woman on the streetor on the steps of the subwayto tell her she is a femaleand their flesh knows it,are they a sort of tune,an ugly enough song, sungby a bird with a slit tonguebut meant for music?
Or are they the muffled roaringof deafmutes trapped in a building that isslowly filling with smoke?
Perhaps both.
Such men most often look as if groan were all they could do,yet a woman, in spite of herself,knows it's a tribute:if she were lacking all gracethey'd pass her in silence:so it's not only to say she'sa warm hole.
It's a wordin grief-language, nothing to do withprimitive, not an ur-language;language stricken, sickened, cast downin decrepitude.
She wants tothrow the tribute away, dis-gusted, and can't,it goes on buzzing in her ear,it changes the pace of her walk,the torn posters in echoing corridorsspell it out, itquakes and gnashes as the train comes in.
Her pulse sullenlyhad picked up speed,but the cars slow down andjar to a stop while her understandingkeeps on translating:'Life after life after life goes bywithout poetry,without seemliness,without love.'
