of the sun coming too close

and the night never ending

but these mean nothing to me

beside your body

I know that outside a war is raging

that you issue orders

that babies are smothered and generals beheaded

but blood means nothing to me

it does not disturb your flesh

tasting blood on your tongue

does not shock me

as my arms grow into your hair

Do not think I do not understand

what happens

after the troops have been massacred

and the harlots put to the sword

And I write this only to rob you

that when one morning my head

hangs dripping with the other generals

from your house gate

that all this was anticipated

and so you will know that it meant nothing to me

—from Let Us Compare Mythologies, 1956

WHEN THIS AMERICAN WOMAN

When this American woman,

whose thighs are bound in casual red cloth,

comes thundering past my sitting-place

like a forest-burning Mongol tribe,

the city is ravished

and brittle buildings of a hundred years

splash into the street;

and my eyes are burnt

for the embroidered Chinese girls,

already old,

and so small between the thin pines

on these enormous landscapes,

that if you turn your head

they are lost for hours.

—from Let Us Compare Mythologies, 1956

THESE HEROICS

If I had a shining head

and people turned to stare at me

in the streetcars;

and I could stretch my body

through the bright water

and keep abreast of fish and water snakes;

if I could ruin my feathers

in flight before the sun;

do you think that I would remain in this room,

reciting poems to you,

and making outrageous dreams

with the smallest movements of your mouth?

—from Let Us Compare Mythologies, 1956

BENEATH MY HANDS

Beneath my hands

your small breasts

are the upturned bellies

of breathing fallen sparrows.

Wherever you move

I hear the sounds of closing wings

of falling wings.

I am speechless

because you have fallen beside me

because your eyelashes

are the spines of tiny fragile animals.

I dread the time

when your mouth

begins to call me hunter.

When you call me close

to tell me

your body is not beautiful

I want to summon

the eyes and hidden mouths

of stone and light and water

to testify against you.

I want them

to surrender before you

the trembling rhyme of your face

from their deep caskets.

When you call me close

to tell me

your body is not beautiful

I want my body and my hands

to be pools

for your looking and laughing.

—from The Spice-Box of Earth, 1961

I LONG TO HOLD SOME LADY

I long to hold some lady

For my love is far away,

And will not come tomorrow