The Stable Girl
BY KEN LEMARCHAND
“All night I shall gallop thus, impetuously,
Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,
Echoing, echoing.
Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?”
—Sylvia Plath
Her hands spin lace from mock orange; a twirling dress for stiff cocktails, yet I, a lord, shall bear his frock pale as ivory and spin wildly as a col…
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