Days end. Few nothings last. It is tomorrow;
three bottles of perfume past that second sorrow.
I scrub my neck, my collar. Haste!– I borrow
minutes from the longer arm of my second sorrow.
The first woe: a toothless mouth: a dull arrow
of a wail. I was a child before my second sorrow.
Then, I learned to mourn for more mores, for marrow.
(I am a woman. It is my last and second sorrow.)
I married that nothing: once through and thorough.
The only song I sing is of my second sorrow.
How many todays have I lost to tomorrow,
in my lap, tending to the red of my second sorrow?
Now tell me what to have for lunch tomorrow.
The bowls turn yellow from a second sorrow
–I am hungry, my limbs a load on this barrow–
and spoons refuse the stench of that second sorrow.
Leave it be! I will eat, write, and become a hero.
Live it be! It is only a small, only a second sorrow.
A crimson blot against the sky: a sparrow
made of my second sorrow.
A second refrain: we will meet, we will meet–
Tomorrow. Past the perfume of our sorrow.
We will meet, we will meet. (No mention of our grand sorrow.)
We will meet, we will meet. Quietly. Tomorrow.