Skunk Hour

    For Elizabeth Bishop¹

    Nautilus Island's hermit²

    heiress still lives through winter in her Spartan³ cottage；

    her sheep still graze above the sea.

    Her son's a bishop.  Her farmer

    is first selectman in our village，

    she's in her dotage⁴.

    Thirsting for

    the hierarchic⁵ privacy

    of Queen Victoria's century，

    she buys up all

    the eyesores facing her shore，

    and lets them fall.

    The season's ill——

    we've lost our summer millionaire，

    who seemed to leap from an L. L. Bean

    catalogue.  His nine-knot yawl

    was auctioned⁷ off to lobstermen.

    A red fox stain covers Blue Hill.

    And now our fairy

    decorator brightens his shop for fall，

    his fishnet's filled with orange cork⁸，

    orange， his cobbler's bench and awl⁶，

    there is no money in his work，

    he'd rather marry.

    One dark night，

    my Tudor Ford⁹ climbed the hill's skull¹⁰，

    I watched for love-cars.  Lights turned down，

    they lay together， hull¹¹ to hull，

    where the graveyard¹² shelves on the town. . . .

    My mind's not right.

    A car radio bleats¹³，

    'Love， O careless Love . . . .' I hear

    my ill-spirit sob¹⁴ in each blood cell，

    as if my hand were at its throat . . . .

    I myself am hell，

    nobody's here——

    only skunks¹⁶， that search

    in the moonlight for a bite to eat.

    They march on their soles up Main Street：

    white stripes， moonstruck eyes' red fire

    under the chalk-dry and spar spire¹⁷

    of the Trinitarian Church.

    I stand on top

    of our back steps and breathe the rich air——

    a mother skunk¹⁵ with her column of kittens swills¹⁸ the

    garbage pail

    She jabs her wedge-head in a cup

    of sour cream， drops her ostrich¹⁹ tail，

    and will not scare.