THE SCRUB-WOMAN

TIME has placed his careful insult Upon your body. In other ages Time gave rags To hags without riches, but now he brings Cotton, calico, and muslin— Tokens of his admiration For broken backs. Neat nonsense, stamped with checks and stripes, Fondles the deeply marked sneer That Time has dropped upon you. While Time, in one of his well-debated moods That men call an age, is attending to his manners, I shall scan the invisible banners Of meaning that unfurl when you move. II WHEN you open your mouths I see a well, and strangled chastity At the bottom—not chastity Of the flesh, but lucid purity Of the mind choked by a design Of filth that has slowly turned cold, Like a sewer intruding Upon a small, dead face. This is not repulsive. Only things alive, with gaudy hollows, Can repulse, but your death holds A haggard candour that gently thrusts its way Into the unimportance of facts. You are not old: you were never young. Life caressed your senses With a heavy sterility, And you thanked him with the remnant Of thought that he left behind— His usual moment of absentminded kindness. When the muscles of your arm Punish the brush that rubs upon wood I see a rollicking mockery— Rhythm in starved pursuit Of petrified desire. When the palms of your hands Stay flat in dirty water I can observe your emotions Welcome refuse as perfume, Intent upon a last ghastly deception. When you grunt and touch your hair I perceive your exhaustion Reaching for a bit of pity And carefully rearranging it. Lift up your pails and go home; Take the false tenderness of rest; Drop your clothes, disordered, on the floor. Vindictive simplicity.