On holiest day dismal I digest myself, composed.
There will be one of these each year, specific apology,
each sin. That of horrible tongue, cut-rusted, that
of proud wash-out. And what mad break this fast
on an untoward day, head spinning. I saw a man
die. Touched his vacant body, wet his stomach
until my eyes turned at his passing in self-scented
clothes. Now I bind in white, wed to what is done
is wrong. Such terrible dragging of lipstick across
a smart mouth to divide it. Such greed. Such intention
First published in Paris Review, Summer 2000, Issue 155
Lynn Melnick is the author of “If I Should Say I Have Hope” (YesYes Books, 2012) and co-editor, with Brett Fletcher Lauer, of “Please Excuse This Poem: 100 New Poets for the Next Generation” (Viking, 2015). She teaches poetry at 92nd Street Y in New York City and serves on the executive board of VIDA: Women in Literary Arts.
