She thought, “But they like this, too. They are like small boys Going off to cook potatoes over a fire Deep in the woods, where no women can ever come To say how blackened and burnt the potatoes are And how you could cook them better back in a house. Oh, they like to come home. When they’re sick they like to come home, They dream about home⁠—they write you they want to come back, And they come back and live in the house for a while And raise their sons to hear the same whistle-tune Under the window, the whistle calling the boys Out to the burnt potatoes. O whistler Death, What have we done to you in a barren month, In a sterile hour, that our lovers should die before us?”