Little Wife

By Marianne Boruch b. 1950 Marianne Boruch

At the Oriental Institute, Chicago

They redid King Tut splendid,
once stone-huge as this
yet his wife’s feet
tiny, the only thing of her now
low, next to him. A few toes, some of the rest,
a bit of ankle, that’s it
in the shade of her husband’s looming, massive
looking straight ahead into the future
where we live and can’t
eye-to-eye, where to stare at him
is to suffer warbler neck, head back and up
à la the high just-leafing-out trees as bright bits
wing their blink
and hide. Little wife,
such small feet, the thought
dwarfs the king
as ache, as what is
ever left of us
and oh, I like her better.

Source: Poetry (November 2011).

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This poem originally appeared in the November 2011 issue of Poetry magazine

November 2011
 Marianne  Boruch

Biography

Poet and essayist Marianne Boruch grew up in Chicago. She is the author of seven collections of poetry, including, most recently, The Book of Hours (2011); Grace, Fallen from (2008); and Poems: New & Selected (2004). Her memoir, The Glimpse Traveler (2011), concerns a hitchhiking trip she took in 1971. In the Blue Pharmacy (2005) and Poetry’s Old Air (1995) are collections of her prose on poetry. In an interview with Brooke . . .

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Poem Categorization

SUBJECT Living, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture

POET’S REGION U.S., Midwestern

Poetic Terms Ekphrasis, Free Verse

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