by Louise Glück
It is not the moon, I tell you.
It is these flowers
lighting the yard.
I hate them.
I hate them as I hate sex,
the man’s mouth
sealing my mouth, the man’s
paralyzing body—
and the cry that always escapes,
the low, humiliating
premise of union—
In my mind tonight
I hear the question and pursuing answer
fused in one sound
that mounts and mounts and then
is split into the old selves,
the tired antagonisms. Do you see?
we were made fools of.
and the scent of mock orange
drifts through the window.
How can I rest?
How can I be content
when there is still
that odor in the world?
—from Triumph of Achilles
