Quoof
How often have I carried our family word
for the hot water bottle
to a strange bed,
as my father would juggle a red-hot half-brick
in an old sock
to his childhood settle.
I have taken it into so many lovely heads
or laid it between us like a sword.
An hotel room in New York City
with a girl who spoke hardly any English,
my hand on her breast
like the smouldering one-off spoor of the yeti
or some other shy beast
that has yet to enter the language.
-- Paul Muldoon
Please join us in a discussion of this poem with award-winning poet Troy Jollimore
Friday, May 18th, 4:00pm
Florence Moore Main Lounge
Comments (0)
You don't have permission to comment on this page.