Méséglise-la-Vineuse – giving up the ghost
I whisper'd up to drown it out,
the lisping cuss of a dragonfly
and his ornery bluff.
Last seen, the Machiavelli
was gathering before the hawthorn,
reaching through for their hips
and haws of Maastricht wine.
And with a sketch and a thought
as scrawny red as the dawn
I lipped, divined and withdrew from these bloodied wrists
my understudy, my young reserve
who was once so clear
of breaking laws of the land.
With a perfume of burning fields she said,
roll your sleeves up, child, your father thinks you a slob
And I thought that this is what I wanted;
that this is what I needed
as they had sown, entwined
and upholstered my limbs,
with pyjama’d designs
of tigers attacking a horse.
“Today I reconciled with Durrell and the wonderful beginning of Clea, that kind of 'Anti-Proust' — the miracle of the madeleine mirroring itself inversely in the perverse miracle of Justine's perfume that, when recognized, forever alienates her lover.”
— Alejandra Pizarnik
Written by nomoth
Go To Page