Robert Lowell(1917–1977)
Skunk Hour
(FR ELIZABETH B I S H O P ) 6
Nautilus Island's hermit
heiress still lives through winter in her Spartan cottage;
her sheep still graze above the sea.
H e r s o n ' s a b i s h o p . H e r f a r m e r
i s f i r s t s e l e c t m a n 8 i n o u r v i l l a g e ;
s h e ' s i n h e r d o t a g e .
T h i r s t i n g f o r
t h e h i e r a r c h i c p r i v a c y
o f Q u e e n V i c t o r i a ' s c e n t u r y ,
she buys up all
t h e e y e s o r e s f a c i n g h e r s h o r e ,
a n d l e t s t h e m f a l l .
T h e s e a s o n ' s i l l —
w e ' v e l o s t o u r s u m m e r m i l l i o n a i r e ,
who seemed to leap from an L. L. Bean 9
c a t a l o g u e . H i s n i n e - k n o t y a w l
w a s a u c t i o n e d o f f t o l o b s t e r m e n .
A r e d f o x s t a i n c o v e r s B l u e H i l l .
A n d n o w o u r f a i r y
decorator brightens his shop for fall;
his fishnet's filled with orange cork,
o r a n g e , h i s c o b b l e r ' s b e n c h a n d a w l ;
t h e r e i s n o m o n e y i n h i s w o r k ,
h e ' d r a t h e r m a r r y .
One dark night,
m y T u d o r F o r d c l i m b e d t h e h i l l ' s s k u l l ;
I watched for love-cars. Lights turned down,
they lay together, hull to hull,
where the graveyard shelves on the town. . . .
My mind's not right.
A car radio bleats,
"Love, O careless Love. . . .' I hear
my ill-spirit sob in each blood cell,
as if my hand were at its throat. . . .
I myself am hell;2
nobody's here—
only skunks, that search
in the moonlight for a bite to eat.
They march on their soles up Main Street:
white stripes, moonstruck eyes' red fire
under the chalk-dry and spar 0 spiremast
of the Trinitarian Church.
I stand on top
of our back steps and breathe the rich air—
a mother skunk with her column of kittens swills the garbage pail.
She jabs her wedge-head in a cup
of sour cream, drops her ostrich tail,
and will not scare.
IS