Jane

The startling pleasures all broke down, It was her first arthritic spring. Inside her furs, her bones, secure, Suddenly became a source of pain And froze on a Saturday afternoon While she was listening to “La Boheme.” Strength had been her weakness, and Because it was, she got to like The exhilaration of catastrophes That prove our lives as stupid as we think, But pain, more stupid than stupidity, Is an accident of animals in which, once caught, The distances are never again the same. Yet there was another Jane in Jane: She smelled the inside of a logarithm, And felt a Gothic arch rise in her chest, Her clavicle widening to bear the weight Of the two smooth plumb lines of her breasts, The blueprints forming an enormous skirt Around her body. Arch and star and cross Swung like little lights inside her head, A church and temple rising from the floor, Nave and transept and an altar where, Unbidden, she saw a kind of sacrifice; The knife was in her hand, the stick, the whip; She cried at her cruelty and cried to be Outside of her defenses. And just then, The windows buckled in, the paintings cracked, The furniture went walking by itself, All out of her control. And it was pain That let her know she was herself again: She wore a cloak of fire on her skin, And power, power floated up to her.