Carried her unprotesting out the door. <br />Kicked back the casket-stand. But it can't hold her, <br />That stuff and satin aiming to enfold her, <br />The lid's contrition nor the bolts before. <br />Oh oh. Too much. Too much. Even now, surmise, <br />She rises in the sunshine. There she goes, <br />Back to the bars she knew and the repose <br />In love-rooms and the things in people's eyes. <br />Too vital and too squeaking. Must emerge. <br />Even now she does the snake-hips with a hiss, <br />Slops the bad wine across her shantung, talks <br />Of pregnancy, guitars and bridgework, walks <br />In parks or alleys, comes haply on the verge <br />Of happiness, haply hysterics. Is.<br /><br />Gwendolyn Brooks<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-rites-for-cousin-vit/
