Victory Produce Co., Strip District, Pittsburgh (1935)


       In the cool of the night
       this fruit arrives
       to the clatter of shoes
       on a cobblestone street
       with heft and heave
       at the onset of light.

       And just about then
       to my bed and regret
       his soil-tainted hands
       come to me.
       They summon, 
       but never quite
       touch what is right.
       "Enough," I have thought,
       as I murmer his name,
       'til the heat of his hand
       dies away.

       By the basin, 
       by the window,
       by gathering light,
       I gaze in the glass,
       and trace the path
       of his lingering hands,
       the dark pastels
       that smudge my skin:
       dark of his fingers
       where they lift my breast,
       dark of his fingers
       where they grip my ribs,
       dark of his fingers
       where they press my back.

       I turn in the mirror
       as he turns in the sheet.
       And waiting for him,
       and waiting for me,
       in the cool of the night
       this fruit arrives.



       Next
       Contents
       Home page