Folded in the doeskin sashes of her lap,
Paused before the little war begins.

This one will be guttural, this war.
How is it possible to still be startled

As I am by the oblong silhouette of the coiling
Index finger of a pending death.

No longer will
Wooing be the wondrous

Thing, instead, a homely domesticity, constant
As a field of early rye and yarrow-light.

What one is fit to stand is not what one is Given, necessarily, and not this night.

— Lucie Brock-Broido (via katherinedecember)