I told her, <br />“I’m the man who shot Jesse James.” <br />She said, <br />“Poetry don’t work on whores.” <br />Her lips moved as little as a virgin’s womb, <br />Early in the spring <br />In the young town <br />High in the furs before the snow. <br />The place doesn’t exist any more. <br />She said, <br />“You cut the head off a snake, <br />You can eat it, <br />But never become <br />As friendly as pigs.” <br />I told her, <br />“I have never seen such well shaped limbs.” <br />She said, <br />“You can move into me now, <br />But go away before I give birth, <br />Because I don’t want him <br />To know your name.” <br />I had already killed my friends. <br />I said, <br />“Now in your bedroom, <br />The omens promised bad luck, <br />Which moated and dungeoned him.” <br />Afterwards, I grew a beard <br />And walked away <br />Like a faded lance buried in the stream. <br />She grew into red dresses, <br />And hung around the child’s eyes, <br />Though never thinking to search <br />Beneath the banking snows.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/beneath-the-banking-snows/
