Attempted suicide was your tour de force
Against defeat, a promissory curse,
An act of nakedness, your first attempt,
The most vital, an earnest stroke of luck.
They screaming picked you off the kitchen floor,
Rushed at the gas range, at the windows, fumbled
The phone. It cut their throat and nostrils. It hurt,
The hoarse hard exhalation of the burners.
I was there when the doctor pocketed his watch
And stood up. I was one among the heads
Converged like cameras on your waking. For
Your giant eyes opened and you vomited.
Resentment died in convalescence; what
Had swelled you like a pregnancy lay dead;
And now gave existence to that same respect
Which to have mothered made you want to die.
I heard one say, “Her gift was to be seen,
And poor. With sometimes spastic hate could foil
Her sister’s husband and her mother’s ulcer.
Called for in sealed and guarded cars could flee
Like wit across theatrical frontiers.
She was born among the mirrors of the bars
In the eyes of scions of important Jews
Whose gaze like marbles searched her dress, and paid.
Interpret it: the callous of the index
Kissed by the boss’s son. The unreal wage
Of the big comprometer. The hours between
Punchclock, alarmclock. To the simple wish to sleep.*
And you, “Life seeks its level, looking out;
Is physical, overt, uneasy lover.
Witness who put a high price on the money,
And, game for every whore, never forgave us.”
Believe me, your intransigent good nature
Evokes, like inward joy of gas, a view
Of peace, a politics of strength, a pride
The touch germane to ecstasy requires.
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