The Manhattan Review
The Manhattan Review
Established 1980

Archive > Vol. 1 no. 1


Mona Molarsky



At last in this dawn, weeds slapping
Above our heads, soused with dew
I know what love is.
It was not this way when Oberon
Opened me with his black cricket legs scraping
And we droned through the night.
Today I woke from the cool grace of fairyland to witness
Your heavy tongue anguishing for words.
Bottom, the world is changed.
Leaves battle for light. Last season’s
Stacked hay rages to breathe and root again.
Now as you offer your warm irregular pulse
The rustics flee and my whole lacy kingdom titters.
Love, let me stroke the gold fur rioting
In your ears. Your gentle eyes break
Into midsummer confusion on my hard breast.
I am not worthy, lovely mammal.
My emerald back, meant to titillate
The bumblebee, does not bristle with stable smells,
Swelter in tides of rich sweat.
But stay, do not quit my bed. Magic
Is powerless to save you as you go
Stumbling and bellowing before the jokers.