James Wright, 1971

Already she seems bone thin
When her clothes are on.
The lightest wind blows
Her dress toward the doorways.
Everybody thinks he can see
Her body longing to follow
Helpless and miserable,
Dreaming itself
Into an apparition of loneliness,
A spirit of vine wondering
At a grape here and there,
As the September spider,
The master, ascends
Her long spine.

Already she weighs more, yet
She still bows down slightly,
As I stand in her doorway.
It’s not hunching, it’s only
That children have been reaching
Upwards for years to gather
Sweetness of her face.
They are innocent and passionate
Thieves of the secret hillsides.
Now she rises, tall, round, round.
And round again, and, again, round.