I told her,
“I’m the man who shot Jesse James.”
She said,
“Poetry don’t work on whores.”
Her lips moved as little as a virgin’s womb,
Early in the spring
In the young town
High in the furs before the snow.
The place doesn’t exist any more.
She said,
“You cut the head off a snake,
You can eat it,
But never become
As friendly as pigs.”
I told her,
“I have never seen such well shaped limbs.”
She said,
“You can move into me now,
But go away before I give birth,
Because I don’t want him
To know your name.”
I had already killed my friends.
I said,
“Now in your bedroom,
The omens promised bad luck,
Which moated and dungeoned him.”
Afterwards, I grew a beard
And walked away
Like a faded lance buried in the stream.
She grew into red dresses,
And hung around the child’s eyes,
Though never thinking to search
Beneath the banking snows.
Robert Rorabeck
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/beneath-the-banking-snows/
