Winter 1965 • Vol. XXVII No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1965 |

Her Delirium

The old lady (a child of seven) cried in her sleep stop beating me! Zu hilfe! Zu hilfe! In the dark cellar her sons had murdered… And the policeman was punishing… The bright light slid down the white bed and the little girl saw her wrinkled arm, her withered knee. Which is me, she cried, which body is mine, and why are they beating an old lady of eighty-nine?

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