The man talks
the woman listens
The man is a teapot
with a dark green brew
of troubles.
He pours into the woman.
She carries his sorrows away
sloshing in her belly.
The man swings off lighter.
Sympathy quickens him.
He watches women pass.
He whistles.
The woman lumbers away.
Inside his troubles are
snaking up through her throat.
Her body curls delicately
about them,worrying, nudging
them into some new meaningful shape
squatting now at the centre of her life.
How much lighter I feel,
the man says, ready
for business.
How heavy I feel, the woman
says: this must be love
--Marge Piercy
5 comments:
what an awesome poem. it speaks the truth to how so many relationships are and how easily one equates what is really death; with love.
love to live; live to love!
Now that was poignant right there. Real food for thought.
If you ladies don't mind, could you break that down to me like I am a 10 yr old? I don't want to say the wrong thang.
Carey: Don't worry about saying the wrong thing. Poetry is oftentimes subjective and is up to the reader's interpretation. What does it say to you?
...Ouch.
Great though.
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