Issue 130, Spring 1994
What can I say? I know the textile trade,
Its crafts, its business, inside and out.
Each side of the Atlantic is the same;
The goods are compromised; the compromise
Is good for business, and this is good
For one short run of what’s past beautiful:
Her fringe, his faille, your piece-good peonies.
The purchase of the short run is what’s style.
I am that thing’s insupportable child.
Do you remember me? The Bovary,
The one, who has survived adultery
As art? The babe? The faint-producing girl?
The one farmed out to nurse in that poor house
With Fame, a perfume ad, hung on shoe nails?
A complicated, simple entity,
A mad cap clutched tight by Charbovari.
The gossips ask so much: Why didn’t she
Transform his love, his masculinity,
Into the thing she craved? It would have been
Like pulling teeth, but still she should have pushed.
If men weren’t hard, who would be interested?
I pushed my father once and he was dead,
A mass beneath the arbor and its shade;
The constancy I knew before the mills.