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I. Lunar Changes COMPLAINT She's gone. She was my love, my moon or more. She chased the chickens out and swept the floor, Emptied the bones and nut-shells after feasts, And smacked the kids for leaping up like beasts. Now morbid boys have grown past awkwardness; The girls let stitches out, dress after dress, To free some swinging body's riding space And form the new child's unimagined face. Yet, while vague nephews, spitting on their curls, Amble to pester winds and blowsy girls, What arm will sweep the room, what hand will hold New snow against the milk to keep it cold? And who will dump the garbage, feed the hogs, And pitch the chickens' heads to hungry dogs? Not my lost hag who dumbly bore such pain: Childbirth and midnight sassafras and rain. New snow against her face and hands she bore, And now lies down, who was my moon or more. PAUL I used to see her in the door, Lifting up her hand to wave To citizens, or pass the hour With neighboring wives who did not have Anything more than time to say. I used to see her in the door, Simple and quiet woman, slim; And so, I think, Paul cared the more The night they carried her from him, The night they carried her away. SAINT JUDAS 49 ...

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