Click here to listen to Katha Pollitt read this poem.
Trudging behind the broad backside of God she hums her useless tune Oh little black dress at the back of the closet, who will crush you now against his chest?
The dark-eyed daughters idly stroke their breasts.
A jackal crouches in shadow, hungry for salt.
At the base of a dune that heaves to the blank horizon
a palm tree shrugs its shoulders
as if to say: Well, what did you expect?