Marilyn Hacker

“You happened to me.You were as deep down as I’ve ever been.You were inside me like my pulse.”

“Lovely and unremarkable, the clutterof mugs and books, the almost-empty FigNewtons box, thick dishes in a bigtin tray, the knife still standing in the butter,change like the color of river waterin the delicate shift to day. Thin fogveils the hedges, where a neighbor dogmakes rounds. 'Go to bed. It doesn't matterabout the washing-up. Take this book along.'Whatever it was we said that night is gone,framed like a photograph nobody took.Stretched out on a camp cot with the book,I think that we will talk all night again,there, or another where, but I am wrong.”

“From Orient PointThe art of living isn't hard to muster:Enjoy the hour, not what it might portend.When someone makes you promises, don't trust herunless they're in the here and now, and just herwilling largesse free-handed to a friend.The art of living isn't hard to muster:groom the old dog, her coat gets back its luster;take brisk walks so you're hungry at the end.When someone makes you promises, don't trust herto know she can afford what they will cost herto keep until they're kept. Till then, pretendthe art of living isn't hard to muster.Cooking, eating and drinking are a clusterof pleasures. Next time, don't go round the bendwhen someone makes you promises. Don't trust herpast where you'd trust yourself, and don't adjust herwords to mean more to you than she'd intend.The art of living isn't hard to muster.You never had her, so you haven't lost herlike spare house keys. Whatever she opens,when someone makes you promises, don't. Trust yourart; go on living: that's not hard to muster.”

“imagine thatit were given back to me to bethe child who knew departure would be sweet,the boy who drew square-rigged ships, the girl who knewtruck routes from ottawa to mexico,the me who found a door in latin verseand made a map out of hexameters.”

“Did you love well what you very soon left? Come home and take me in your arms and take away this stomach ache, headache, heartache.”

“i'm alternatingly brilliant and witless-and sleepless: bed is just a swamp to roll in.”

“Who gets to choose what battletakes her down?”