Sally Dupré, from the high porch of her house Stared at the road. They would be here soon enough. She had waved a flag the last time they went away. This time she would wave her hand or her handkerchief. That was what women did. The column passed by And the women waved, and it came back and they waved, And, in between, if you loved, you lived by a dull Clock of long minutes that passed like sunbonneted women Each with the same dry face and the same set hands. I have read, they have told me that love is a pretty god With light wings stuck to his shoulders. They did not tell me That love is nursing a hawk with yellow eyes, That love is feeding your heart to the beak of the hawk Because an old woman, gossiping, uttered a name.