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ISSUE:  Winter 1983

It’s to hear the children under my window
perform the ritual dance of sex to know
I am asking for an end to danger and death,
for the dance of shouts and gestures
is towards life, which is for danger and death:
a rush towards an ecstasy for destruction,
and I am with them: my heart beats
to the pounding of the feet, the pulsing voices.

Mothers standing together are keeping watch
against strangers, after their own
previous night of sex and of asking
themselves the need for it, moving, tender,
sensual, transitory; and they are silent
about it, except by voice: harsh,
cut and dried or laughter, shrill
with disappointment for what childhood
had promised.


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