Don't hide it from me, Man—
I know that you've got horns like Pan;
I know that you've got cloven feet;
I hear you blow your pipes
and pluck your lyre—
I'm not the little maid
who heard that foolish music played
and fell for something mortal-sweet,
began to learn the stripes
of fond desire.
I know this: Swampscott borders Lynn;
Lynn lies from Boston by a ride
a horse could take without chagrin,
four miles up North.
Did you know, on my father's side,
my ancestor from Cork was exiled forth
to Massachusetts, spared from being hide?
He stole a horse. It's true as rhyme—
God save us crime,
God save us sin,
God save us Massachusetts—even Lynn.
I have this fear, sometimes, that you're in Hell—
though I know well
the Christian devil has no hold on you.
You're not in Hell; it's only Lynn
(that's different by an inch or two)—
enacting Dionysian
performances—I know it, you.
The women gather in your room,
and you eviscerate each womb—
I know it, you. Don't lie to me.
You always smell too much of wine
and ecstasy
that follows you through eglantine.
Apollo's poetry,
appalling though it be,
you seek it, or it seeks you, or
I've merely worn myself out sore
in searching for the symmetry.
My Man—
take off the mortal guise
and show me your enchanted form.
I saw the charm glow in your eyes—
those flames you fan
have kept me warm
too many winters now. It's time to learn
the god,
the spirit and the rod
who would have all New England burn.
Don't leave me to insist—
I'll twist
your tail.
I'm fine
should my good soul derail...
It was a shoddy one to start;
my body and my heart
don't have the shine
of that your gold
and that your wine.
Your silver blood is going cold.
Take me, or else the Devil will—
he's followed me to Rockingham,
he's stranded me on Hampton Beach.
It is not Fate I damn,
but still,
if I should fall from Jesus' reach,
I think I'm owed the thrill
to pick my breach.
I think my great-grandmothers did this, too,
and chose witchcraft, instead, for health—
but fuck that. Wealth
of supernatural power swarms in you:
I'll take my chance at stingeing my grave's due.
