by Jeremy Radin

                 after Adrienne Rich

You wrote about the rhythmic thud
of a fist upon a slab of oak until it bled,
the oak, & bled arpeggios for God

knows who in a kitchen in Vienna 
as the night unloosed its luminous hens.
You said there was a sexual metaphor 

in the music, but you never said what sex was.
Sometimes when I read something I wonder
what part of me is reading, then I wish

to be abandoned perfectly, with everyone,
silent & sexless & useful, all alone
in the municipal cocoon.

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About the Author:

Jeremy Radin is a writer and actor. His poems have appeared (or are forthcoming) in Poem-a-Day, Ploughshares, The Colorado Review, Crazyhorse, The Sun, Only Poems, and elsewhere. He is the author of three collections of poetry: Belly God (Orison Books, forthcoming 2026, selected by Ellen Bass), Dear Sal (Not A Cult, 2022), Slow Dance with Sasquatch (Write Bloody Publishing, 2012). As an actor, he has worked extensively in theater, film and tv. He lives in New York, where he likes to sit in the park and point at birds. Follow him @germyradin