Written by Jane Brinkley
Could we be cruel in arms and like it?
You left last night, and, waking, still
in the velvet chair, I changed my mind.
I always liked your angle of gesture, its poke,
like a thermometer, like Vivaldi,
his first note, the rest of them rote,
I always liked those libertarian henchmen
in old Gothic yarns who will do or kill
anything for a buck–
pare the ribbon from the Duchess’ neck,
not exactly roast but certainly warm
the liver of some heiress
until it’s full like a trophy,
a new backyard for practice,
big enough to kick in,
“recite the Lord’s prayer,” they’d say,
their victim feeling funny, under
Frost Bridge, the ice growing runny,
Their favorite though not for function’s sake,
more as a matter of taste.
The Carps and Oscars, so nice,
the bridge bucolic.
“You get me,” one might say to the other,
before landing a punch,
the bruises pretty dark tomorrow,
and awfully nice to press at.
Though they won’t talk about it like this.