These beggar girls in Italy are some of the most beguiling creatures I know. Waking early, their hair is twisted by their mothers' twisted hands, over, over, over. Shy, slender, such delicately made young things they are. Long tendrils of feathery hair spiral down their skirts.

They beg as though surprised to find themselves adept at such a task. The well-shaped hand turns palm-up naturally, bent just so. Well understood is the upward glance of innocent astonishment, the downward of wistfulness.

They drink coffee from the train station, bought for them by their doting mothers. Then they all board the train, looking their best, hair in place. Feeling young and warm and loved. So they beg from you almost by mistake. They drank the same coffee that warms your stomach; they woke when you did; they ride the same train. But because their mothers rose early to twist each section of their hair gently into spiraled strands, they have the right to ask for your money.

England

I am Abel.
And my brother, Abel,
And I
Are dead and lie here in
The floor of the Tower.

Our bones, white,
Do not remember
What happened
And tell no one.
What happened?

Our brother did not kill us
And yet
(Oh! my brother)
He murdered our poor lonesome
Bodies together.

Our bones they
Lie lonely, lost
Lilies leading
Long, long
What happened?

My blood does not cry out
From the earth
It bled
And dried
Long ago.
Just bones
That might be mine
That might be my brother’s
Lie here
On the floor of the Tower.

aiee

Our little house cannot sustain this,

And all the little drawers and rooms in protest

Have tumbled out their contents on the floor.

The Tempest Cycle

Miranda

Married now, and old,
I still remember our last
night on the island.
My father master
of the circus.

He hit it, but
his heart had
broken—because
he set his Spirit
free.

I knew, but I did not think.
I thought I would have nine children.
Our oldest acquaintance could not be
more than three
hours. Ay me.

And yet—I have no desire to see
a goodlier man.

Ferdinand

She is smarter than I and
she never wears shoes.

Our children were raised in the open air
with little clothing and long hair.

When I was a child I wore petticoats
and took cold baths in a silver tub.

Our oldest acquaintance could not be
more than three
hours. I see

what I could not before. But
she wears flowers in her hair—
her silver hair—and I would not
change.

Prospero

I am old, and I wait to die.

I sometimes think I see my Spirit,
silver streaking—
sometimes.

One day, perhaps tomorrow, I
shall climb into my grave
and—waiting—there rest me.

Good Friday

—How sweet the smell
of the rotting carcass

of me
in the grave.

Sleeping, I was woken
and went for a walk.
Jerusalem was surprised to see me.

I don’t know why—there were others
there. We woke and went
for a walk. A night on
the town. Jerusalem

was surprised to see me.
If our noses had not been
eaten by worms and maggots
we might have noticed
the strange smell.

Our Souls are Wind

The elements whereof our souls are tempered
Are now too massy to be uplifted.
And the wind is all around and would
Knock us down, were we more than a
Single speck of dust. A speck of dust on which
Sits the weight of the cosmos. We do not
Move in the tempest that surrounds us.

If we could move, we would soar, but
Our souls are cosmic clay, dark and dank,
Dug from the pit of the earth.

The wind blows where it will,
And you hear its sound.

Our ears are clay. We hear nothing.
Our face is clay. We feel nothing.

But you know not from whence it comes,
Or where it is going.

I am a speck of a speck of clay. I am dropped
Into water. I sink—do I drown?

Solidago: to make whole

Goldenrod, the deep yellow, the color of the center of the sun,
the clean burn—I brought you some when
you were crying, because your love had left you.

She left before the sun had set, before the sky
was orange. The trees shone green, the leaves were tipped with
goldenrod, the deep yellow, the color of the center of the sun.

It was dark when I climbed the steps to your front porch,
where you were sitting with the lights turned out, while
you were crying because your love had left you.

We watched the sun rise above the houses across the street;
I sat beside you. Between us was the
goldenrod, the deep yellow. The color of the center of the sun

stained the horizon. Days later I stood beside you
as she was lowered into the ground, her coffin covered in
goldenrod, the deep yellow, the color of the center of the sun,
as you were crying, because your love had left you.

Tea Time

There will be time for all
That when there is no time at all.
When the when becomes
A useless inquiry and the
Extension of space is a completely
Different matter. The matter
Is at hand and the hand will
Spin and splay away
From its body and not feel it
But still know, or not know it and
Still feel.

Teatime will be all the time.
Bedtime will be a dream, a
Pleasant far off thing that
We used to do in those days
When we had days, and
Some days were long and dull
And some were nice—those
Were the days—though I
Wouldn’t go back if you asked
Me. The mountain is only
For climbing—who would
Descend except Christ,
Who walked down, everyone
Patting him on the back
(or they would have if they
Had hands—material hands)
He walked back up the hill
And died there—reverse
Purgatory, reverse Eden,
Reverse damnation.
Then the Father sat with
The Son at the Eternal Tea Party
And the Spirit hovered over the
Surface of the hot water,
Warming himself
Before entering
The hearts of men.

Chapter the Fourth
That Thursday week, the marriage of Mr. Plumpkins to the fair (but affected) Miss Morrisson was to take place. Of course, she was to be married from her home, which was but a hovel. As she was waiting for the cart which was to carry her and her earthly belongings to church, who should come upon her but the spiteful Ellyn Hauton.
“What,” exclaimed the latter, “are you thrown out of your house, Miss Morrisson?”
“Oh! no,” said our heroine, “I am to be married to Mr. Plumpkins.
“To my Gabriel!” ejaculated Ellyn (who henceforth must be Known to the World as Mrs. Plumpkins), “but that is surely Impossible!”
In lieu of answer, the brave Miss Morrisson fell instantly into a severe fainting fit. Fortuitously, she was caught by the romantic Chas. Gardiner, Bart. who, clumsy as he was, dropt her straight away. When he learned of her ruined wedding, he most obligingly offered to stand up and do the job himself. Thus, the minister was put to no great inconvenience, being quite used to the changing out of bridegrooms in his profession. Thus, we leave the lovely neighborhood precisely what they deserve: A life of marriage, or none at all.