A Visit

Fine bitches all, and Molly Dance   ... — Djuna Barnes Come for duty’s sake (as girls do) we watch The sly very old woman wile away from her pious And stagger-blind friend, their daily split of gin. She pours big drinks. We think of what Has crumpled, folded, slumped her flesh in And muddied her once tumbling blood that, young, Sped her, threaded with brave power: a Tower, Now Babel, then of  ivory, of  the Shulamite, Collapsed to this keen dame moving among Herself. She hums, she plays with used bright Ghosts, makes real dolls, and drinking sings Come here My child, and feel it, dear. A crooking finger Shows how hot the oven is. (Also she is alive with hate. Also she is afraid of  hell. Also, we wish We might, illiberal, uncompassionate, Run from her smell, her teeth in the dish.) Even dying, her life riots in her. We stand stock still Though aswarm with itches under her disreputable smiles. We manage to mean well. We endure, and more. We learn time’s pleasure, catch our future and its cure. We’re dear blood daughters to this every hag, and near kin To any after this of  those our mirrors tell us foolishly envy us, Presuming us, who are young, to be beautiful, kind, and sure. Originally appeared in the March 1958 issue of Poetry magazine.