Leaflet on Wooing

Listen to Lucie Brock-Broido reading this poem. Wanting is reposed and plump As the hands of a Romanov child

Folded in the doeskin sashes of her lap,
Paused before the little war begins.

              This one will be guttural, this war.
How is it possible to still be startled

As I am by the oblong silhouette of the coiling
Index finger of a pending death.

No longer will
             Wooing be the wondrous

Thing, instead, a homely domesticity, constant
As a field of early rye and yarrow-light.

What one is fit to stand is not what one is Given, necessarily, and not this night.