Slander by Franz Wright

Slander

 

I can just hear them

on the telephone and keening

all their kissy little knives

 

or voraciously taking turns

nursing a lie

still in its early white whisperhood

 

and I could do something

bad back to them

someday, I guess—

 

but why

 

Exclusion doesn’t hurt

that much, in fact

 

I’ve visited the stars on foot

 

Come disdain of the dreamhand for grammar

and fame, this Boston’s

gothic chilly April

night (new leaves the color

of her eyes) beloved

booknight real

real world, oh

prasini arachnid

s'agapo

 

Light green eyes dusk distant

tolling now fading

to heartscar

which says

 

I was loved, always

loved

 

And then they wounded me

so usefully—