I have heard
That you were living like a goat in solitude
And turning in the proxy and the mud of it.
Don’t be coy with me. You
Were mean and you were plump. Dove,
Mistaken. You are not good. Heart
The color of a tray of entrails in a Harlem shop
For meats. I have heard Miss X has had a vision
In her rooms. It was uncomely,
A mess of hungry colors, like the Rockettes
Singularly beautiful but all together hideous.
There is no single flower that is not singularly
Beautiful I’ve heard. I have heard you did not care
For me. You were well-propped in your Tudor
Bed, surrounded by dark
German chocolates, in the tantrum of
Your convalescence that went on and on, though
No one was permitted to know the nature
Of your wound. I have heard
There will be war. Dove mistaken for an abject churl.
I’ve heard pink underwings of prior
Wives will not be welcome in your home,
Like spores. I have heard you do go on.