I have no hope.
I sit in a log cabin
somewhere, surrounded by washing machines
and bottles of beer.
You enter dancing,
your skin sailing around your bones,
the soup of your system drowning your thoughts,
your thoughts crying “Help!”….”Don’t Help!”
Only for you
is death a dream.
Meat flies into your mouth
like sunlight, Miss America,
you are never full,
your fat is like the flag,
it hangs between you and the world.
That is why I have given you this.
This article is available to online subscribers only.
Please choose from one of the options below to access this article:
Purchase a print premium subscription (20 issues per year) and also receive online access to all all content on nybooks.com.
Purchase an Online Edition subscription and receive full access to all articles published by the Review since 1963.
Purchase a trial Online Edition subscription and receive unlimited access for one week to all the content on nybooks.com.