For Love and Worse

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

The old, the old, they sit, required to keep

Their lips sewn tight.  The old, the old, they sit

And stare at walls where men, the men, would sleep

Before the old were old.  If wives could hit

Their heads against those walls and bring back men . . .

But men have knives and guns and hold them for

A while and then they do not have them . . . then

The women stare at walls.  A girl is whore

If she comes near the men or if they swerve

To her.  She’s young.  She does not know of walls.

The men see only curl of hair and curve

Of breast or hip.  Men hear black passion’s calls.

  Then death comes knocking at the gate.  Inside

    The women and the walls must hate the bride.

© Phillip Whidden