THE SKY
She picked a ripe plum and he took her breast.
They mean to harm. Not that they found too poor
Plum's purple or breast's whiteness. Can we be sure
Of any shape not marred by our caress
Without that last commitment nothing of flesh,
Nothing of earth can give? So rage is pure.
Woe to her breast, magnificent! Oh hard,
Harsh were her fingers on the plum she pressed!
Now with unmanageable nails they try,
Panting, strict, fanatic, and lost to sweets.
Her breast's not round now; the plum's gone, bled dry.
She cannot pardon; he will not entreat.
They look around, then up. Each sees the sky–
Its perfect body, unhurt, beyond reach.
Lionel Abel
