The Fist
by Derek Walcott
The fist clenched round my heart loosens a little, and I gasp brightness; but it tightens again. When have I ever not loved the pain of love? But this has moved past love to mania. This has the strong clench of the madman, this is gripping the ledge of unreason, before plunging howling into the abyss. Hold hard then, heart. This way at least you live.

The Friend

We sat across the table.
he said, cut off your hands.
they are always poking at things.
they might touch me.
I said yes.

Food grew cold on the table.
he said, burn your body.
it is not clean and smells like sex.
it rubs my mind sore.
I said yes.

I love you, I said.
That's very nice, he said
I like to be loved,
that makes me happy.
Have you cut off your hands yet?

Marge Piercy

The fragile heart of the dark
tall boy was whimpering.

The thought of loosing what
once made his heart skip a beat
mad him flat and pale.

He felt the immense hollow as
the cryinh grew thicker inside him.

He was stripped of all the bright
things in life and left alone in the dark.

He was worn out,
for his one true love left him
and was never to be found.

The Sloth by Theodore Roethke

In moving-slow he has no Peer. You ask him something in his Ear, He thinks about it for a Year; And, then, before he says a Word There, upside down (unlike a Bird), He will assume that you have Heard— A most Ex-as-per-at-ing Lug. But should you call his manner Smug, He'll sigh and give his Branch a Hug; Then off again to Sleep he goes, Still swaying gently by his Toes, And you just know he knows he knows.

The Sentence by Anna Akhmatova

  And the stone word fell On my still-living breast. Never mind, I was ready. I will manage somehow. Today I have so much to do: I must kill memory once and for all, I must turn my soul to stone, I must learn to live again— Unless . . . Summer's ardent rustling Is like a festival outside my window. For a long time I've foreseen this Brilliant day, deserted house.