When thirty, fifty

Why then do wives here affix
their garb dark as intestine
with such skilled hands?
I will answer: their husbands
eat until their organs grow
feet enough to trample ponds
back into the dirt. Boys
attach to anglers like wives
thrown on the browning pyre.
How a city of women copes
is not to be answered, though,
that is for them to sort out
like their husbands barely covered
in their mass grave the pub.

And husbands look at their food
as if it were gathered acorns
bitter on their tongues. Bitter
as a salt-bath alone in the scrub
where they listen to the crying
of secret drinkers tenderly
nursing their sips at noon.
How a city of men copes
is beyond imagination, how cream
can weaken into a pot of droop
concerns them more, and that’s why
when they keel over into stone
wives here think nothing
of a day of all-black outfits.

~ by Jeremy on January 23, 2011.

2 Responses to “When thirty, fifty”

  1. Oh my God. Dense, beautifully rendered, fantastic, just great!

  2. Kind of you, but kolembo, I think you’ve got a lot to learn.

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