She put the comb in one hand and with the left waved. With that deliberate ambivalence I've come to hate. The slow kiss which lands on my face like a wasp. It began in childhood. Mother desired her and they spent hours together. If not in the garden surrounded by dahlias and clover, inside the musty hallways or under the zanzariere. They very deliberately excluded others, though I should say they were kind to me. When they bathed I listened, not to their laughter which in itself was omnivorous, but to the splashing, the pauses. I had too much respect for Mother to be surprised. For example, her choice of linden flowers for the bath. They went on like this, conspicuous in the dark. They would brush each other's long heavy hair. Mother was terribly young, but not at all innocent, as you must realize. Once, on the terrace, a liana plant straining toward light amused them. She let Claire eat its flowers. The thought of them upstairs in their horribly white chamber, with late afternoon light, disgusted me. I began to study insects, collecting their persistent voices, like whispers in another room. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A COUNTRY BURIAL by EMILY DICKINSON SEA GODS: 3 by HILDA DOOLITTLE MENAPHON: DORON'S JIG by ROBERT GREENE FRIAR JEROME'S BEAUTIFUL BOOK; A.D. 1200 by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE POET'S DESIRE by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON THE PROLOGUE by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON |