And they keep a wounded distance
With following bare feet,
A distance Isadoran—
And the dark moons beat
Their drums.
More desolate than they are Isadora stands,
The blaze of the sun on her grief;
The stars of a willow are in both her hands,
And her heart is the shape of a leaf.
And they come to her for comfort
And her black-thrown hair
Is a harp of consolation
Singing anthems in the air.
With the dark she wrestles, daring alone,
Though their young arms would aid;
Her body wreathes and brightens, never thrown,
Unvanquished, unafraid . . .
Till light comes leaping
On little children's feet,
Comes leaping Isadoran—
And the white stars beat
Their drums.
ANNE KNISH
Opus 195
HER soul was freckled
Like the bald head
Of a jaundiced Jewish banker.
Her fair and featurous face
Writhed like
An albino boa-constrictor.
She thought she resembled the Mona Lisa.
This demonstrates the futility of thinking.
EMANUEL MORGAN
Opus 6