It made me feel small, like a husband,
and I never married, never owned
a table worth turning over, china
worth shattering, linen worth blood
from the cut hand I sucked and cursed
and wrapped in a torn shirt, in a pocket.
Can't they make it new again, those bees,
those communist women at their weaving?
It was only the long lines, the slow,
enforced pace, solemnity, cold white glitter;
I was only too proud to eat cold history,
to stand in the breadlines at the tomb;
I only declined the feast in the mausoleum
as Yesenin did, who wrote his regrets in blood.
The Man Who Broke Up The Dinner Party Answers
Eric Torgersen
(1)
Poem topics: feel, history, husband, women, white, long, small, stand, slow, never, cold, worth, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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