January 23, 2009


No one can quite

get over it. It is summer and revenge
lies sweetly in the fields
with her legs open,
with her legs open,   her Bo Peep
petticoats in ribbons.
petticoats in ribbons.  Et tu,

far away, alternate worlds
queue up
to be auditioned,
to be auditioned,  chatting
despairingly among themselves,

but nobody's called back. Revenge,

our wretched darling, shakes the straw
out of her hair
out of her hair  and shines herself
into the reddest apple
on the highest bough.
on the highest bough.  Hanging tough
through hundreds of such afternoons,
worried into life
worried into life  by lightning’s play
on elemental soup, her stalwart heart

will rise again, slough off
loose brilliance
loose brilliance  like a firecracker,
and pack more melodies than Mozart.

Love, revenge, remaindering . . .
is this the end?
is this the end?  —The world pumps on,
with all its gently pitiless muzak.

— Rachel Loden
from the book, Hotel Imperium (Georgia)

Posted by dwaber at January 23, 2009 03:51 PM