Poetry

Anne Stevenson (b.1933)
The Victory 1974
I thought you were my victory
Though you cut me like a knife
When I brought you out of my body
Into your life.

Tiny antagonist, gory,
Blue as a bruise, The stains
Of your cloud of glory
Bled from my veins.

How can you dare, blind thing,
Blank insect eyes?
You barb the air, you sting
With bladed cries.

Snail! Scary knot of desires!
Hungry snarl! Small son.
Why do I have to love you?
How have you won?