Winter 1962 • Vol. XXIV No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1962 |

Eve’s Daughters

The old masters of subordination, were they right? Superior by testicle to this weak vessel with plentiful hair? When Nora got liberated, where did she go, you want to know. Yes, where? Here and there like her captors to register title On erasable slate to traits flesh was heir to. Did she learn More than an embrace is an embrace, and when the cords Strained with intolerable rage in her neck Drink and sex were ways, thinking was another? And of course she poetastered, Mr. Pope. Her plight was intricate, implicit with sins Perpetuate in her and her mother. On the whole Little help from the men, who had a tendency To trace the causes of her malady to a curable Itch in the crotch, with which she was more seldom Afflicted than her doctors. Oh well, in another hundred years She should be human. Then what shall we do for difference?

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