Carol Frost

September 26, 2016 Frost Carol



We have seen you following the scent—

heads like shovels, eyes stones,

and then heard you grrrrrrr

over the body, bedded then in an alley

or low corner. No reluctance in her young desire,

you say, when yousay, yousay,

You like it like this, don’t you? You like it!

We remember the craven air,

semen on clothes, skin, and dirt,

moreso in the city, with its avenues,

high windows, courts, symphony halls.

The child is in darkness,

and we have gone into its cellar

where it is kept. For the sake of a return

to its happiness, how much happiness

would have to be leashed?

We go home with the paradox,

that for the city to be what we think

and to live there,

some must be beaten, some raped.

We must know it

as we know Leda and Zeus, Philomemna,

Procene, and the King of Thrace.

Dogs are in the streets in suits;

they run loose.

New poems by Carol Frost appear in On the Seawall and Vox Populi, and in 2020, Madhat Press published her latest book Alias City. Retired recently from Rollins College, where she directed Winter with the Writers for more than a decade, she is presently a Chancellor for the Florida State Poets Association. When she is not writing, she tends her olive and her citrus trees.