THROBS

My heart throbs, throbs, in pain, in pain --
Thinking of her who spurned me,
The giant SHE with hair like snakes;
Her razor voice -- my shirt torn open --
Searing my white chest flecked with red.

I think often of her, such a . . . small package,
Her soft hands and legs spread. . . .

O, if something could give us power
To forgive the past, or t'alter the unforgiving error!

--but her voice is the Holocaust, and a shellhole,
And the tomb grinding shut.

# # # # #

Home | "Solomon and Sheba" | About Grant | What's New | Links | Coming Soon | Send E-Mail

Last modified: 11:43 AM 12/16/2001