A Visit by Marie Ponsot

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.