TUESDAY

My graceful string bean sister naked lay, when she was ten,

A Tuesday, under mother's ironing board. The iron

Slid off and seared her tight-lipped crotch. There was a rush

To have the burns anointed, an ambulance

Sirened through the streets and, in EMERGENCY,

The interns performed a laying on of hands.

She did not whimper even when a nurse re-wound

Her wounds nor cry out to family visitors

Her pain -- "A little soldier," so my father said.

Well, to make the long story short, she married,

Had three sons, lived well and long, died

An easy death; but no man -- husband, son, or brother --

Since that cauterizing fire fell from Mars or Tiw,

Ever satisfied her deep-down central pleasures.