The woman who sits in the square handing out oranges
\nIs the woman who combs the hair of Jesus
\nIn the Basilica. The woman I would be
\nIf I were not selfish and an unbeliever.
\nThis woman arranges gladiolas on the altar
\nFor every funeral. She is happy to think
\nOf the risen in the arms of the Blessed Mother.
\nShe crosses herself with holy water
\nFrom the shrine at Lourdes.<\/p>\n
I am the woman who eats the oranges, peel and all.
\nWho scoffs at those who want to live forever
\nIn the sublime light of the Host.
\nI want morphine dreams and a book of poetry.
\nI don\u2019t want hope or faith or the charity
\nOf women with baskets of roses,
\nOf women who offer cheese to the poor,
\nOf women who milk the moon for stories
\nThat I can\u2019t witness. What I give
\nIs what I don\u2019t want\u2014my mother\u2019s costume jewelry,
\nThe tiresome novel I couldn\u2019t finish.<\/p>\n
To be an imperfect woman is a sorrow.
\nEven a woman like me will admit
\nTo a small envy and a larger rejection.
\nEven a woman, thin with grief, will sit
\nIn the dark and be lonely.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
In the barn loft inhaling emanations
\nOf the cows. Their gassy farts said to be curative.
\nShe was desperate enough to attend. To listen hard
\nWhen Gurdjieff spoke
\nWith an intensity that could freeze a flock
\nThe way a sheepdog can, crouching and staring.
\nShe wrote in her diary, implored and renounced
\nHer friends. Lawrence called her disgusting
\nOut of his own cowardice. She drank the hot milk
\nStarred with filth. Anything. Anything.
\nShe was still young. The one voice
\nThat made Virginia flinch.
\nWhen at last he\u2019d come,
\nPossibly to save her, she clung
\nTo his arm as they ascended the stairs
\nAnd the blood rose in her throat to spill
\nLike a cascade of liquid rubies,
\nExpensive gems, something she might
\nHave written once.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
A Woman Like Me The woman who sits in the square handing out oranges Is the woman who combs the hair of Jesus In the Basilica. The woman I would be If I were not selfish and an unbeliever. This woman arranges gladiolas on the altar For every funeral. She is happy to think Of […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":251,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[351,353],"tags":[355],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\n