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Robert Lowell - Man and Wife
Work rating: Medium

Tamed by Miltown, we lie on Mother`s bed;
the rising sun in war paint dyes us red;
in broad daylight her gilded bed-posts shine,
abandoned, almost Dionysian.
At last the trees are green on Marlborough Street,
blossoms on our magnolia ignite
the morning with their murderous five day`s white.
All night I`ve held your hand,
as if you had
a fourth time faced the kingdom of the mad - 
its hackneyed speech, its homicidal eye - 
and dragged me home alive. . . . Oh my Petite,
clearest of all God`s creatures, still all air and nerve:
you were in your twenties, and I, 
once hand on glass
and heart in mouth,
outdrank the Rahvs in the heat
of Greenwich Village, fainting at your feet - 
too boiled and shy
and poker-faced to make a pass,
while the shrill verve
of your invective scorched the traditional South.

Now twelve years later, you turn your back.
Sleepless, you hold
your pillow to your hollows like a child,
your old-fashioned tirade - 
loving, rapid, merciless - 
breaks like the Atlantic Ocean on my head.
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